


First Name Basis

by Pappillon



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: All two of you Yu-Gi-Oh! fans still reading fics., But I wrote it with my whole heart, I mean seriously. SLOW. BURN., M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Explicit Sex, Slow Burn, So I hope you enjoy it should you give it a chance., Violetshipping, puppyshipping - Freeform, this story is extremely silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25889923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pappillon/pseuds/Pappillon
Summary: With Mokuba reaching adulthood and striving for his own independence, Seto finds himself listless and alone. Upon seeing Jounouchi on television, however, Seto sends him an impromptu text and changes the course of his life.
Relationships: Jounouchi Katsuya | Joey Wheeler/Kaiba Seto
Comments: 115
Kudos: 156





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So...I don't know what to say for myself. I started rewatching Yu-Gi-Oh! as a joke (it was one of my childhood favorites) and then I really, unironically, fell in love. So then I spent an entire summer writing this and regret nothing. I know this probably seems like a huge betrayal after writing almost exclusively Steven Universe fics for a very long time, but here we are, and I'm only kind of sorry. (I don't think there will be much more after this, so if you have to unsubscribe, I understand. Thanks for sticking around while you did.) 
> 
> This is First Name Basis, and I sincerely hope you love it as much as I loved writing it. As always, feel free to let me know your thoughts. I will treasure all of your comments, forever.

It was a quiet winter morning, the second Monday of January, when Mokuba pushed open the double doors to Seto’s room. However silent he tried to be, they still scraped across the hardwood floor. He had cast a light that shot from the hallway to envelop Seto’s figure in bed, buried beneath a plush comforter.

“Seto — ” Mokuba tried to keep his voice low, leaning culpably against one of the doors. “I'm going to head out.”

Without throwing off the comforter, Seto rose as if accused. The pale morning light made him squint. “I thought I was taking you.”

“I know, but I was going to meet a friend a little bit early. I'll meet you there, I promise.” 

“But it's snowing,” Seto laid his head back down. Even with centralized heating, the air was cold. His alarm clock read 6:46 a.m., which made the comforter seem warmer and the mattress more generous.

The door clicked softly shut again. Seto had lost. He closed his eyes and let Mokuba go, the bed’s hold too strong to break. Maybe he would wake at 8:00, or 8:05, or 8:10...

***

It was 8:15 when Seto had hit snooze for the third time, and had finally managed to sit up. He opened the curtains behind him to a chalky sky and a Domino City winterscape, draped in snow. It even obscured the faraway mountains whose dark grey bodies wore pure white caps. Seto sighed visibly into the glass.  _ Another harsh one. _

Seto ate, washed, and dressed, finding himself in a partially cloudy bathroom mirror. He had put a sharp white suit over a blue shirt speckled with gold, and fixated upon the second gray hair he had found that month. He leaned in, making the mirror fog up more. Though his hair was still a little damp, there it was — front and center, mocking him. 

Seto straightened himself out, turned the bathroom light off, and went downstairs. He could see from the top of the staircase that Mokuba had taken the kimono from its resting place upon the front room sofa—garment bag and all, his _geta_ disappearing from the entrance evidence that it hadn't been just a dream.

***

The traffic to the ceremony was hell. Every damn car in Domino City had congested the roads leading to town hall, each of them progressing only about a meter before stopping again. Snow fell as a light powder, dusting the shoulders of young men and women dressed in expensive suits and long-sleeve kimono. Seto estimated that at least 3/4 of them were rentals. Their parents walked alongside them, shielding them from the snow with clear convenience-store umbrellas, and Seto realized that he had forgotten one himself.

Finally, his driver reached town hall and held open the car door. Parents, brothers, sisters, cousins, who had come to support their own twenty-year-olds, all seemed to turn around at once, then double take. “Isn't that Kaiba Seto?” They whispered too loudly as he passed them. Seto was certain he could feel someone's phone camera pointed at his back as he entered. His watch read 10:37. The ceremony would start soon.

***

The mayor, a slightly overweight man in a gray, cheap-looking suit took the stage, adjusting the microphone and clearing his throat. Several rows of newly-minted adults straightened their backs and lifted their heads. The entire auditorium stopped talking, and the mayor preemptively set his short-fingered hands on the podium. For the final time, he adjusted his legs, shoulder-width apart. Seto noticed a bald spot at the very back of his head, bordered by thinning white hair.

“Everyone, thank you for attending today's ceremony — ” He spoke in a coarse voice. 

Seto began searching the first three rows for Mokuba. The young men and women had formed clusters, some still chatting quietly to one another. They made a patchwork quilt of solid black suits and explosions of flowers in red, white, and gold. 

Mokuba would be in white. He had insisted. “I'm going to wear a suit for the rest of my life, but I'll probably have far fewer opportunities to wear a kimono.” So Seto took him shopping at one of the most expensive boutiques in Domino City, their winter line of handmade kimono on display. Most of them were  _ furisode _ — sleeves to the floor and soaked in snow flowers, chrysanthemums,  _ tsubaki _ .

Mokuba looked uncomfortable. He tensed at the extremely attentive sales assistant, who asked them in exquisite  _ keigo _ what they needed. He tensed even more when Seto replied bluntly, “he needs an outfit for coming of age day.” He tensed while they brought out the entire cavalry of men's kimono — admittedly plainer than the women's, but just as elegant. Almost all of them bore complex patterns that fit seamlessly into their solid black or white fabrics, allegedly handmade. The shopkeeper ran her hand over each of them as if playing an instrument. It was genuinely surprising when they didn't respond with a musical phrase.

“You’re more than welcome to try on any one that you like, and one of our male employees can help you dress if you require assistance.” She had nearly reached the end of her, “please take your time,” when Mokuba pointed to the one on the very end.

“Uh — that white one looks nice.”

“Oh,” the shopkeeper had to walk to the far end of the table to reach it. “Do you mean this one, sir? Would you like to try it on?” 

“Sure. Yes, I can try it on.” 

Without prompting, yet another attentive male employee rushed over to lead him to the dressing room. “Please follow me this way, sir.” Seto got a glimpse of the kimono. No discernible pattern. Nothing extra. Just white silk adorned with the shop’s brand insignia embroidered in gold at the end of the sleeves.

Mokuba left the dressing room without the kimono on, yet claimed that he wanted that one. When Seto asked him if he was certain, he only nodded and tensed even more once Seto paid one million yen in cash straight from his wallet.

From his place in the third row of guest seating, Seto searched for that kimono, the stark white against both plain black and noisy flower patches, and found him sitting amongst a group of young women. One of them whispered something to him and Mokuba turned around, missing his shoulder-length hair. Sometime that morning he had gotten it cut. The woman at his side adjusted his bangs, giggling. She said something. “You look like your brother,” Seto imagined. Mokuba pulled away, brushed it off. That must have been it.

***

The ceremony ended and its attendants came gasping into the freezing winter air. The families occupied the bottom of the staircase as their children emerged at the top, posing in formation for pictures.

Mokuba had found a place in the second row, his hands at his side for the first serious photo and then with his tongue out and fingers forming a heart for the silly one. The same girl from earlier in a red kimono and thick-rimmed glasses made bunny ears above his head — something he would find later when they received the photos. They posed for one more before the crowd dispersed and Mokuba turned to her before coming downstairs. He must have promised to rejoin her, but then met eyes with Seto and began his descent.

Finally, Seto witnessed the full body of his kimono, its white sleeves and gray pants making him resemble the snow-covered mountains in the distance. He treaded so carefully down the steps, responsible with his new-seeming long legs, but he had been chipping away toward Seto’s height for a while. That fact hit especially hard when Mokuba ran to embrace him. His long strides had brought him so smoothly.

Someone snapped a picture.

“How did you manage to get a haircut?” Seto asked, maintaining his balance. “Every salon in the city must have been booked.” 

“They were.” Mokuba set his hands on top of Seto’s shoulders, negotiating himself against the icy sidewalk, “but I had reserved my appointment months ago. I wanted to surprise you. I guess…” He paused, touching the back of his head. “I didn't realize how much I would resemble you.” 

“It suits you,” Seto said. “You look grown up.” 

Mokuba smiled but furrowed his brows. Someone shouted, “Kaiba- _ san _ ! May I please take a picture of you and Mokuba?” and someone else added, “to commemorate the occasion!” 

Seto, who would normally have walked away, turned toward the crowd. He put his hand upon Mokuba’s back and found it to be rigid. Yet, Mokuba smiled for them. There would be articles written whether he did or didn't, so he chose to be pleasant. He grinned into the flashing lights, into a future of magazines that would compare their heights, their faces, weigh their fortune, pondering if Mokuba had found a girlfriend yet and commenting on the fact that Seto never had. It would be a thing for months until it wasn't at all, until something else happened, and the cycle would start over.

Seto felt Mokuba inflate with a sigh that no one would notice. He had become so good at letting it deflate slowly from his nose that only someone standing as close as Seto would hear it.

He called off the pictures and they loaded into the car, leaving barely enough time for Mokuba to wave to the young woman he had left up on the staircase. 


	2. Chapter 2

January produced February and Seto had framed the pictures of Mokuba’s coming of age day ceremony. He placed them in various locations around his office, at the corner of his desk, and at one end of his bookshelf. One he had enlarged and framed in silver, hanging it against the wall. That photo didn't feature him; only Mokuba smiling with snowflakes in his hair.

Almost all the articles written about Mokuba called him handsome, which was true. A few of them stated that he looked like a younger Seto, which was also true. Some were printed on thick glossy paper, which Seto cut out and stashed in his desk drawer with other important things — a blue eyes white dragon eraser he had won from a gacha on his first try, and a bookmark that Mokuba had made him in middle school for Father's Day. Though he had called it  _ aniki no hi _ instead.

The sun was setting and Seto turned on his office television. This time of day he reserved for checking emails, clacking up short-tempered replies at roughly 150 words a minute. Sometimes the phone would ring. Sometimes he would answer it.

The television droned as the room grew darker, broadcasting a Duel Monsters game. In May, there would be a national tournament, but this one was only prefectural. Seto opened and read another email — one of his business associates asking for a meeting about —

“ _ Introducing Jounouchi Katsuya of Domino City _ — ”

The crowd screamed and Seto stopped typing. There he was, smiling and waving to his fans, whose cries only grew more deafening. In the stands, they held up homemade signs of poster board and glitter glue. Some had drawn his face in marker. Seto kept watching as Jounouchi took his spot on the battlefield, wearing a red button-up shirt and black leather jacket.

He had written about some of his clothing deals in the New Years cards he used to send. They would always read like he was gloating;  _ I got this brand deal; they printed my face on this bag of cereal; they're issuing me an exclusive trading card _ . One was called “Lady Luck.” At some point, he had stopped sending them, but Seto would still see him sometimes, printed on the side of city buses, and now on television.

Jounouchi’s opponent took the field. He was unknown, but rising through the ranks. The commentators explained it was his first time making it that far, but upon projecting both of their statistics, Jounouchi would likely win.

They began their duel as more emails came in. The little blue number beside Seto’s inbox increased from seven to thirteen. They always wanted something. Seto kept watching. Jounouchi started with a monster, a face-down card, a crooked grin. He gave his opponent nothing. For almost the entire match he kept his face-down card face down. It waited. He touched it occasionally as if debating, and his opponent, under the heat and lights of the arena, began to sweat. Maybe it was the pressure of the match or the suffocating cheers from Jounouchi’s fans, but he eventually lost. It was decided from the moment Jounouchi played his Red Eyes Black Dragon. The camera caught them together in matching colors like Father and Son.

Seto knew the feeling.

At the very end, Jounouchi met his opponent in the middle of the arena. He smiled at full capacity, caught him in a hug, and patted him on the back. They had miced both of them for the duel but the audio had stopped transmitting. Still, it must have been something encouraging.  _ You had me on the ropes there for a second,  _ or, _ that was a great strategy _ . Never any hard feelings. The program transitioned into commercials, but Seto turned off the television at the risk of seeing another one of Jounouchi’s brand deals. It was nearing six anyway. Mokuba normally came home around seven.

Seto allowed his computer to sleep even with all the emails collecting inside it, leaving the office to make dinner.

***

Seto had fired all of his chefs because they used too much butter. Mokuba would rave too often of their food’s deliciousness over green beans shiny with grease, or bread soaked decadently with olive oil and herbs. Once they even had an unauthorized cake of smooth chocolate and weightless buttercream frosting, made to show off the chef’s talents. She was fired that very evening and Seto never hired anyone else.

On Fridays, because Mokuba had begged, Seto would make pasta. Originally, he began with tomato sauce, one type of meat, spaghetti, but more recently Fridays were becoming a complicated affair of secret ingredients and imported Italian goods. He even had a dusty old cookbook, whose origins he couldn’t possibly explain — every recipe written by the shaking hand of an Italian grandmother. The pages had yellowed and their ink had faded, mismatched with the fresh, dark Japanese words Seto had translated in the margins. 

That night’s dish was a colorful puttanesca whose vegetables he cut precisely and whose cooking he timed perfectly. Decadence in the right areas. Seto never used too much oil, never too much butter. All the best ingredients by the correct doses, so his food was meticulous but never too flavorful.

The puttanesca came out beautifully, plated with its colorful vegetables huddled in the center, steam drifting to the ceiling. It was a little after seven.

Mokuba would be home soon, so Seto set the table with silverware that rang like holy tuning forks when he put them down, and navy blue cloth napkins with a silver K embroidered into the corners. Then he took his place at the head of the table and waited.

He glanced at the clock.

Checked his phone.

Scrolled mindlessly through his emails, which he would answer tomorrow, probably.

The clock read 7:29 and the steam had stopped breathing from the noodles. The sauce had congealed a little in an unappetizing way. Mokuba’s water and Seto’s modest glass of wine began to sweat.

He sent a text.

And called five minutes later.

Before Mokuba could speak, Seto heard a group of laughing children.  _ Friends. _

“Hello?”

“ _ Are you coming home? _ ” Seto couldn't keep the edge from his voice.

“Oh, not right now — I'm sorry. I meant to text. Don't tell me you made dinner already — ” 

“I did. It’ll be waiting for you in the fridge.” 

Before Mokuba could launch into a more profuse apology, Seto hung up. Bringing his food to the microwave, he shut its door too hard and reheated the pasta too long.

***

Never a victim of desperation, Seto found things to do. He dusted and vacuumed his room of trading cards and trophies, which the housekeepers were forbidden to enter; he stood outside in the garden as the night closed its curtain over Domino City and its flashing lights. He went back inside, climbed the long staircase to the library, moped. He listened to arias that lamented betrayal from his phone as he chose a book of literary short stories. He went back downstairs and didn't acknowledge his emails.

Seto occupied one of the chairs near the front entrance, turning on the chic, slender light that stood by it. He read until the outside darkness swallowed the garden, emblematic of a night that had truly begun. His book went quickly, its thick pages underlining the silence as he turned them. By the time he reached the third story, he closed the book and leaned his head against the upper lip of the chair. His phone loyally reported that it was 9:41 p.m., along with three new emails that crowded the top of his notifications. Seto closed his eyes.

He opened them when he heard the front door softly close. Mokuba had begun to very carefully remove his shoes, interrupted by Seto’s full attention. It was almost midnight and they both knew it.

“Where have you been?” 

Mokuba succeeded in removing his second shoe and approached. The entire house was casting shadows, save for Seto’s reading light, which drew Mokuba’s face in serious angles. He answered as though the question were asked normally. “After class Tsukiko asked me if I wanted to hang out, so we, Toshiro, and Miyuki went out for dinner and then to her dorm room to play a board game.” 

Seto hadn't heard those names once in his life.

“ _ You were allowed in her dorm room? _ ”

“Yeah, it's mixed.” Mokuba sighed. “I'm sorry I missed dinner, but I don't understand why you're upset.”

“ _ It's almost midnight! _ ” Seto stood, knocking the book from his lap. “You've  _ never _ been home this late before, and because you were playing a board game in your friend’s ‘mixed’ dormitory? You could have at least called me to pick you up — ”

“I don't need you to pick me up! I'm perfectly capable of taking the train and walking home, which _I did_. I'm an adult, Seto. Not some twelve-year-old fugitive.”

“ _ I'll remember that the next time I'm cooking you dinner. _ ” Seto came very close as he walked past Mokuba, staring him in the eyes before advancing to the staircase. He stopped at the first step as Mokuba inflated, sighed out of his nose, and let his arms fall to his sides. 

“Look,” Seto said, “It would make me more comfortable if you could invite your friends here. I'll have the driver take them back to the college, or wherever they live.” 

Mokuba stayed still too long. With the light in the background, he appeared as a silhouette, dragging his palm across his face. “Okay,” he said. “I'll ask them.” 

Their profiles looked so similar.

Seto nearly told him, “You're all I have,” but began his ascent instead. The backs of his eyes felt raw and his body struggled past eleven o’ clock anymore. He settled on a quick “good night” without looking back. He would probably find Mokuba in his chair, texting trash talk to his friends. He swore he could hear his thumbs making furious contact with the touchscreen, just as Mokuba returned, “Good night.” But Seto was tired and might have imagined it.


	3. Chapter 3

Seto went out for a run that morning. He departed when the red sun had barely begun to peak over the tall mountains. In the visible winter air, his bones weighed heavy from lack of sleep. Normally, on Saturday mornings, he might indulge in a few extra hours, but the same force that launched him forward all his life had tossed him violently out of bed. It rang like an alarm at the base of his neck and made him feel cursed. 

He ran around his neighborhood until he had come in contact with other homes. He and Mokuba lived so far up the mountain and in such seclusion that it took him some time to find another mansion. Upon reaching it, Seto promptly turned around before any faces could peer from its windows. He didn’t speak with his “neighbors” and intended to keep it that way. 

By the time Seto returned, showered, and dressed, Mokuba had woken up. They encountered each other in the kitchen, where Mokuba sat at the table over an open textbook and a scattering of pens. He was highlighting a paragraph in green when Seto appeared, causing him to deviate and prematurely bleed into the next line. 

Seto had dressed in a casual but expensive-looking creme sweater and perfectly tailored black pants. His hair was still a little damp from the shower. Both waited for the other to speak. 

“You look like you’re going somewhere,” Mokuba offered. He capped his highlighter. 

“I’m meeting someone at the Kaiba Corp office today regarding the design of a new product.” Seto walked to the fridge, opened it. “We’re trying to engineer a lighter-weight duel disk since all of those losers keep complaining that it’s too heavy for their weak little arms.” He took a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and drank it one gulp. 

Mokuba wrote something in the margin of his page. “Don’t you normally design them yourself?” 

“I don’t have the time.” 

“I see.” Mokuba kept reading. 

Seto stood there with the empty water bottle crinkling in his hand. He considered the contents of the fridge again and found that the pasta dish was gone. “What happened to last night’s dinner?” 

“Oh — ” Mokuba answered without looking up, “I had it for breakfast,” and scribbled something. “I know you’re probably going to tell me that I shouldn’t have pasta for breakfast, but — ” Finally, he made eye contact. “I have a long day of studying ahead and it looked good.” 

“But was it good?” Seto asked. The cold air of the fridge raised goosebumps under the sleeves of his sweater. 

“Yeah. Your Italian food has been getting even better lately.” 

Very gently, Seto crushed the empty bottle in his hand, breathed in, took another one. Before Mokuba could react to the noise, he closed the fridge and said, “I’m glad you liked it,” then recycled and left the kitchen. Entering the hallway, he called, “I should be back around noon.” 

“Good luck!” 

Mokuba turned the page just as Seto began his descent to the first floor. His feet matched the cadence of  _ even better, even better _ . 

*** 

Seto welcomed his guests to the top of the Kaiba Corp building, whose windows showed every stretch of Domino City: the metropolitan heart, the suburbs on all sides, the pockets of forest, and even past that, other cities with their looming skyscrapers. 

The altitude was enough to inspire a nosebleed and his guests looked affected. They were the middle-aged president of the company who would manufacture the new duel disks, and the artist who designed them, a tome of a sketchbook in her arms. They had both worn their finest suits, fresh from the dry cleaner misted with too much perfume, a colorful tie he saved for special occasions, and heels she wasn't used to walking in. 

He sat them across from his desk, and offered them drinks that they first refused out of obligation but accepted the second time. Seto called his secretary to bring glasses of tea as the artist opened her sketchbook, folding it in half along the metal rings, keeping it secure against her chest. She patted a little sweat from her brow as the president cleared his throat. 

“If it’s alright with you, Kaiba- _ shachou _ , we’re very eager to present our designs.” 

The artist’s face was pink from chin to forehead. 

“Show me.” 

With both arms entirely extended, she surrendered the sketch book to the lip of Seto’s desk. He took it in one hand, brought it closer, set it down flat. Upon the weighty off-white pages were elegant sketches of potential duel disks. She had colored them with a variety of combinations, black and red, white and blue, the classic colors of the original, but sleeker and thinner. In the corner of the page, she had drawn how the slots would retract into a port made for them, not much bigger than a Duel Monsters deck.

“Can you really make it this thin?” Seto said, pinching the top of the page. 

“Yes, sir.” The president opened his briefcase and removed a small slab of metal, which he handed to Seto, who weighed it against his fingertips. “We were waiting for your approval before creating the first prototype, but this is the material we intend to use.” 

Seto returned it. “When do you think you can make the first one?” 

“Our initial estimate is about eight weeks, but we’ll keep you updated through every step of the process.” 

“Don’t. Just let me know when it’s done.” 

Seto attempted to return the sketchbook, but the artist broke out into a more profuse sweat. “I’m sorry, sir, but I would much appreciate it if you would turn the page — ”

Seto put the book back down and turned it, revealing several more duel disks whose card slots extended in the shape of an open dragon’s wing. In the bottom corner, she had even sketched Seto posing with one such duel disk in white, electric blue veins activating from the card he played — who else but a Blue Eyes White Dragon. 

“Why didn’t you show me these first?” 

Both the president and the artist had been holding their breaths. 

“We’re so glad you approve of them, sir — ”

The artist cut in, gently, “because it’s your brand — ” Her face, by that point, had transitioned to red, as if the mounting pressure were preparing to make her head pop off. “When you used to duel, I would always imagine you with this kind of duel disk, sir.” 

The president glanced at her sideways with a plastered smile. “Please let us know if you would like one of these as a prototype.” 

“I would.” Seto removed a black marker from his drawer and signed his name in the negative space surrounding his likeness. Finally, he returned the book. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with.” 

Both of them bowed low within their chairs, the artist clutching her sketchbook even more closely to her heart. Seto concluded the meeting, and as they were on their way out, the secretary finally entered with a tray of tea. Seemingly relieved to be released, they excused themselves by bowing past her. 

“You’re late,” Seto said. He had already opened an email, punching out a reply. 

“I’m sorry, sir — ”

“Whatever. I’ll drink it. Just put it at the edge of my desk.” 

She placed it there, bowed, and left him alone. 

*** 

The secretary had brought bottles of tea instead of glasses, ice cold and a few different types. Barley, green, oolong. Seto took the oolong for the caffeine. He sipped it, staring absent mindedly over the cityscape. Snow was threatening to fall again from the grey clouds huddled together outside. 

Seto had occasionally caught articles written about him online. He never sought them out, but stumbled upon them, staying long enough to know that the public thought him eccentric, cold. Beautiful. There would be interviews centered around people who had met him and they would grant their full review.  _ It started well enough but he seems to think he’s above everyone.  _

_ He’s too critical.  _

_ When you used to duel…  _

What stories would come from the artist? Seto was determined never to find out. 

He finished one bottle and began another. It was working. The caffeine gave him jitters where his muscles ached before. His eyes still felt raw. He texted Mokuba. It was almost two. 

_ I had to conclude some business at the office.  _

Mokuba replied quickly.  _ Okay, I might be out by the time you get back _ . 

Seto took another sip, stared out the window. His thumb felt drawn to his contact list, and he indulged it. He still had Jounouchi’s number. He still had a lot of their numbers. 

He wrote with neither hesitation nor thought:  _ I saw your match on television. Congratulations on your victory _ . Then he sent it, placed his phone upon his desk, drank another mouthful. Maybe the caffeine had possessed him to do it. 

His phone started ringing a minute later with an incoming call. It reanimated violently against the desk, buzzing as if threatening to jump. It was Jounouchi. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey, long time no see! How’s it going?” 

“It’s...going fine.” Seto paused. His neck grew warm beneath his sweater. “How are you?” 

“I’m doing great — ” the wind made a cameo against the microphone. “It’s funny you texted because I just picked up lunch and I’m pretty close to the Kaiba Corp building. Do you want to catch up? Assuming you’re over there. But I get the feeling you don’t stop working.” Jounouchi laughed. “How about it?” 

“Are you inviting yourself over so I can watch you eat?” 

“No, I can pick you up something so I can watch you eat too — ”

“You don’t need to do that.” Seto exhaled. “Just come over. I’ll meet you outside.” 

“Alright, see you soon — ”

Seto hung up and inhaled the rest of his tea. 

*** 

Jounouchi arrived with one bag of curry and another from the convenience store, bulging with bottles of tea and food wrapped in plastic. Upon spotting Seto at the front doors, he waved, wearing the same jean jacket circa ten years ago. Seto allowed him inside. The air was so cold that nothing felt real, just the goosebumps and Jounouchi’s visible breath. 

They remained on the first floor, where Jounouchi chose one of the tables near the large, glass windows. Where they sat contained a view of the garden, dusted with snow and filled with blooming  _ tsubaki _ , which provided sharp bursts of fuschia among the white and green. 

Jounouchi emptied his bags — a king-size curry with three types of meat, bottles of tea, and  _ tonkatsu _ sandwiches on white bread, cut into neat triangles. Their plastic wrappers still contained the bright orange stickers declaring their price — 400 yen, but whether that was cheap or expensive for convenience store food, Seto couldn’t decide. 

“Okay, I know you told me not to bring you anything, but it felt rude to only come here with my lunch, so — ” Jounouchi wielded his large, plastic spoon and began folding the rice in with the curry. “I brought a few sandwiches too. They’re some of my favorites.” 

“You  _ really _ shouldn’t have.” 

Jounouchi smiled before taking a bite. “Are you saying you’re not going to try one, Kaiba?” 

“We’ll see.” Seto took a bottle of tea, this time green. “Don’t tell me all of these are for you, too. I can’t believe you’d bring me two  _ entire  _ sandwiches with nothing to drink.” 

“Take whatever you want. I’d be happy to run out and get more if you need me to.” Jounouchi leaned back a little, glanced into the garden. “So you saw me on TV, huh? What did you think?” 

“I thought whoever picked your clothes did a good job.” Seto left the bottle’s lips pressed against his own for a moment, “and you dueled pretty well, I guess. It must be encouraging, having all of your fans screaming for you.” 

“Don’t you know?” 

“ _ Know what? _ ” 

“Well, you just said it like you don’t know what it’s like.” Jounouchi left the spoon in his curry. Outside, snow began to fall. “You used to have a bunch of fans screaming for you too. I bet they still would.” 

“That’s not what I remember from it.” 

“Yeah — ” Jounouchi crossed one leg over the other, performing a complex balancing act in his chair. He held his pose without falling or spilling food down the front of his shirt; true progress. “You were always focused on winning, and I can’t really blame you. All the other stuff can be pretty exhausting.” 

“How so?” 

“Well, right when I called you, I had just finished a photoshoot, and the day before that, I had a meet-and-greet, an autograph signing, a meeting with a few sponsors. There’s something almost everyday. Now, the real game is more ten percent Duel Monsters, ninety percent everything else.” He leaned forward for another spoonful. “They’ve really come to stress the whole personality aspect of it, but don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. It’s just hard to keep track sometimes. I’m sure you know what that’s like.” 

“I do,” Seto said. He rotated the bottle cap against the table. “Before you called me, I had a meeting with the president of the company who’s going to manufacture lighter-weight duel disks, for  _ casual _ players. We went over the concept art.” Seto took a sip of tea. “People have been complaining that they’re too heavy.” 

“ _ Too heavy? _ ” Jounouchi laughed. “Come on. They need to get better problems.”

“Agreed. But if they want a new one, then fine.” Seto watched the snow fall, how it washed out even more of the green and pink. The sky had turned purely grey. 

“How is Mokuba?” 

“Mokuba’s great.” Seto breathed out a little too hard. “He recently had his coming-of-age day ceremony — ” he dug for his phone, pulled up the pictures. He even allowed Jounouchi to hold it. “He studies economics in college now, second year.” 

“College, huh?” Jounouchi zoomed in on Mokuba’s face. “Wow, he’s so grown up. I remember when he was this tall — ” He indicated with his hand about the height of the table. Seto nearly argued that he was a little taller than that, but Jounouchi was preoccupied, holding the phone level with Seto’s face. The next words were inevitable: “He looks just like you.” He finally returned it. “I bet he’s a real lady killer.” 

“I wonder about that myself.” 

Jounouchi returned to eating his curry. “What makes you say that?” 

Seto looked again out the window, whose scenery had become even more snow-coated and washed out. At the edge of the garden stood a woman who had paused as if she had spotted them, like she had encountered two magnificent birds of prey, but he couldn’t tell for certain. 

“We had a fight yesterday because he came home close to midnight. He tried to explain himself, but I lost my temper. If he would have texted...” 

“I’m sure he just forgot — ” Jounouchi swallowed, took the bottle of black tea. “I mean, he should have texted, sure, but I remember being twenty, staying out until four. I didn’t tell anyone where I was. Not like anybody cared that much anyway.” He took a big sip, and also noticed the girl. She had drawn a few steps closer. “One day he’s going to be grateful. I know I wish I had somebody looking out for me like that. Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.” 

Seto considered the table top. “Thanks, Jounouchi.” 

“Yeah, you’re welcome. Now can you stop looking so gloomy? I bet a sandwich would help.” He offered one. 

“Do I  _ have _ to? I usually try not to eat garbage.” 

Jounouchi laughed. “ _ There _ he is! And yeah, you do. Do you know how much 400 yen is to a guy like me? I even left the sticker on so you would feel bad,  _ and there’s two of them _ .” 

In spite of himself, Seto caught part of Jounouchi’s smile. “I do remember you being really poor.” 

“Oh, I still am. Extremely. My agent takes everything and sends me a couple of yen rattling around in an envelope twice a month. But I bought this for you,  _ Kaiba-sama _ , to show you how grateful I am that you allowed me into your building today — ”

“Alright, shut up.” He accepted the sandwich, peeled away the saran wrap. “And if you call me ‘Kaiba-sama’ again, I’ll have you escorted from the premises.” 

“Alright, alright. I was just playing.” 

Seto had forgone saying ‘I know’ and instead took a hearty bite, teeth sinking into the pork cutlet in the center. The white bread clung to the roof of his mouth and the  _ tonkatsu _ was dense, but the ratio of barbeque sauce to meat to bread was reasonable enough that he didn’t gag upon swallowing extravagantly, to prove that he had, in fact, ingested it. 

“Well?” 

“It’s not bad for being so cheap. I can see why you like these.” 

“Hey, maybe next time I can trick you into eating some curry too.” 

“Doubtful.” 

They kept talking until Jounouchi had finished his curry and they had drunk all of his tea, and then the tea Seto’s secretary brought them after that. All the while, the one girl standing outside had multiplied into three. It grew darker, snowier, with more women gathering. At six o’ clock, Jounouchi left to greet the small flock awaiting him outside. “We should talk again soon,” he said. “It was good seeing you.” 

Seto lingered at the table while his driver readied the car. Out of the darkness, a camera flashed, along with the sound of a high-pitched “ _ Kakkoii! _ ”

_ Oh, he’s so handsome, so cool _ . 

Seto took the remainder of the sandwiches and left, telling himself that Mokuba might want them. 


	4. Chapter 4

About a week had passed and Friday circled around again. As promised, Mokuba was home that night. He had even taken up an apron and a knife, cutting a bright red pepper for their  _ nasu arrabiata _ . Seto had shown him how to tuck in his fingers, using his knuckles to guide the blade. “If you cut yourself,” he warned, “you’ll never hear the end of it.” With Seto glaring over his shoulder every few minutes, Mokuba didn’t doubt it. 

Seto was sauteing the meat and eggplant sauce at the stove, and had even added a small amount of extra oil — a peace offering. The kitchen smelled of rich tomato sauce, minced garlic, boiling noodles. Unphased, Seto checked his phone between perfectly timed stirs, leaving his hand against the reddish wooden spoon. 

Mokuba scraped the peppers to the side of the cutting board, then started another. “Who are you texting?” 

“Keep your eyes on your knife.” 

“I’m not looking at you. I’m just curious. You’re not usually this active on your phone.” 

“Aren’t you observant? I’m texting Jounouchi. He came to the Kaiba Corp building the other day.” 

“Jounouchi?” Mokuba set down his knife, wiping his hands across his apron. He didn’t take it up again. “I haven’t seen him in forever. Is he going to work with you?” 

“No,” Seto stirred a final time. “Bring me your peppers.” 

“Why did he meet you at the corporate office, then?” Mokuba carried them, using the knife’s edge to guide them into the sauce. 

“He was in the area and said he wanted to catch up.” 

“Well, he always was really friendly.” Mokuba extinguished the flame beneath the pot of noodles and took it to the sink where the colander waited. As he poured, steam gasped to the ceiling. 

Seto turned off the sauce. 

“Why don’t you invite him to come to the pool with us on Sunday? I know I’d like to see him again, and it would be fun to have a third person.” 

“I wasn’t planning on bringing any guests.” 

“I know, but,” Mokuba went to the sink and shook the water from the noodles in short, violent strokes. “I bet he would come if you asked him, and besides — ” He began to plate the noodles, naked and steaming. “It’s just swimming. If you don’t want to be social for several hours, this would be a good place to invite someone.” 

“I’ll think about it.” 

“Great! In the meantime, will you bring me that sauce?” 

Seto eased the sauce over the noodles, piling Mokuba’s plate with plenty of eggplant — rich in nutrients and shiny from the oil. Sitting in his normal place, Mokuba couldn’t pull his eyes from the pasta, its attractive reds and purples, and its scent of carefully minced garlic and peppers. 

Seto put their plates down and Mokuba led with his fork. 

“I really thought this bigger one would be for you.”

“Don’t get excited,” Seto took his place. “I expect you to eat all of those vegetables.” 

Mokuba grinned, twirled his fork inside the pasta. “If you want me to grow any bigger you might be disappointed,” and he took a large bite, leaned his head back. “Mmm — ”

“How is it?” 

“It’s good — ” He swallowed, “It’s  _ so _ good — ” and loaded his fork again. “You know, if you ever get tired of running Kaiba Corp, you could probably make it as a pasta chef.”

“I’ll get tired of running Kaiba Corp when I’m dead.” Seto, too, began his first bite. “But I’m glad you like it.” 

***

That night, the heater worked hard as winter closed its fist around Domino City. It whispered its warm air with the same rhythm as  _ pasta chef, pasta chef _ , leaving Seto between states of too hot and too cool. He compromised — let his feet escape the comforter while the frosty glass of the window exuded its chill. There was also the cold white light of his phone, accentuating the veins in his eyes as his thumb flirted with its short contact list. 

He had a meeting early tomorrow — something about testing the new hologram system. They couldn’t meet any later, refusing every other time slot in polite but extremely vague terms. Even over the phone, the man’s voice reflected his cringing in apologetic pain. 

_ I’m so sorry, but that’s _ —

Seto stopped thinking about it. He refused to glance at the time displayed in the top corner of his screen, reading 11:57. 

He began a text message to Jounouchi.  _ Mokuba and I are going to the pool this Sunday. Would you like to come? _ Then sent it, laying his phone face down against the comforter. 

The night, still shedding flurries of snow, seemed especially dark now that the days ended in the later afternoon. The window showed black between its borders, the same color behind Seto’s eyelids —

A message arrived at 12:03. 

_ not sure if u noticed but its freezing outside _

Seto answered back immediately.  _ We’ll be going to a private indoor pool _ . Then a second text:  _ Idiot.  _

Jounouchi responded before the second text had arrived.  _ Count me in sounds bougie  _ and had included some sort of incomprehensible smiley-face, its tongue sticking out. 

_ See you then _ . 

_ See u then _ , and the final text:  _ rich boy _

Seto put his phone down and tucked one foot beneath the blanket. Another compromise. The heater breathed out and Seto dreamt of another life as a pasta chef. 

*** 

Seto and Mokuba had come with their bags, which held their towels, their swimming caps, their suits. They sat within the lobby of Domino City’s prestigious  _ Swim Club _ . The owner hadn’t printed the name on the building; in fact, upon first glance, it looked more like a European art museum with its high ceiling and its domed sea-green roof. The back half of the building, which contained the pool, was composed of glass walls, their panels gilded in gold and the floor a complex mosaic of Grecian-looking tiles, whose path also ornamented the bottom of the pool. 

What had Jounouchi said? 

_ Bougie.  _

Seto regarded the marble statue on the far side of the lobby and checked his phone. 

“Do you think he’s lost?” Mokuba asked. 

“He’s not technically late yet, but I wouldn’t doubt it.” He leaned back; his knees popped. “I’ll give him five more minutes before I call — ”

But there was Jounouchi, following his cue from stage right. He checked the address on his phone, then the building, then his phone, mouthing out the words ‘ _ Swim Club _ …’ He was approaching the front doors when Mokuba left his seat, opening them, yelling Jounouchi’s name. It wasn’t clear who initiated the hug, but they almost knocked each other off the sidewalk, laughing. Then the obligatory, “Look at you!” Jounouchi put his arms out to measure Mokuba’s height, up to his shoulders. He was only a few centimeters taller than Jounouchi, who punched him playfully on the arm, tousled his hair. 

They came inside and let their laughter echo around the formerly contemplative halls of the Swim Club lobby. 

“Kaiba, I know you showed me the picture, but Mokuba’s really grown up! I can’t get over it.” 

Seto stood up, taking his bag from the chair. “I can’t either.” 

“Mokuba the lady-killer!” 

Jounouchi had captured him in a friendly head-lock, to which Mokuba hollered, “Jounouchi, please! I’m just a math nerd — ”

“Nonsense, you were one of the toughest kids I knew!” 

They drew the attention of the attendant. Good-naturedly, she leaned over the front desk, watching them. 

“ _ Enough _ .” Seto’s voice was deep and loud enough to stop their noise. They granted him their attention, albeit Jounouchi with his hand on his hip, grin cocked to the left. “We came here to exercise. Let’s stay focused.” 

Seto walked toward the pool entrance. From the corner of his eye, he caught Jounouchi marching in mock-seriousness behind him and Mokuba trying not to smile.

***

All three of them arrived in the locker room, also decorated in Mediterranean blues and whites, and tiled to the ceiling. They chose lockers equidistant to one another, the points of a vague triangle. The room was so large, they looked like strangers. 

Still, Jounouchi glanced. He had finished putting on his own swimsuit — nightmarish green, pineappled trunks and a mismatched navy blue cap. Strands of blond hair escaped from its sides. Seto was tempted to tuck them in, but he had paid so much to rent the space that no one would reprimand them.

He had just snapped the elastic band around his waist when Jounouchi sat next to him, leaning forward a little. "That's a nice swimsuit," he said. 

"Thanks."

"Looks expensive."

"It is." Seto went about putting on his own cap, his goggles. He tucked his hair in, making him look like a different person — a professional swimmer.

They were smirking at each other, like they would in high school.

"Well, don't go thinking it's going to make you faster than me, Rich Boy."

"That's not the reason I'm faster than you."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. It's the fact that you eat too much curry." Seto pinched Jounouchi's stomach — the little pouch that resulted from his leaning over, and left the locker room. 

Jounouchi followed with cries of, " _ Oh _ , you're going to get it! You're going to get it now!" 

***

They stood before their own lanes at the lap pool, bouncing lightly, toe to toe. Placing themselves on such parallel ground invited comparison — Seto's well-toned muscles and Jounouchi's soft-stomached torso, marked with unexplained scars. Both were breathing hard. Both were ready.

Mokuba, standing shyly in the lane next to Seto, cleared his throat. "Are you guys sure about this? You haven't even warmed up yet, and we really just came for some exercise — "

"Mokuba," Seto said, "Count down from three."

Mokuba hesitated. He looked to Jounouchi, who gave him a single, solemn nod, then to Seto, who never stopped facing forward. "Fine, but you're both insane." He began counting down. "Three — "

"Five laps," Seto told Jounouchi.

"Two — "

"Six if you're not a coward."

" _ One! _ "

They dove into the water. The waves they created were furious enough to obscure their bodies beneath the surface. They appeared about a quarter of the way through their lanes — Seto, gracefully cutting through the water, and Jounouchi chopping through it. Still, he kept up. As Seto launched himself from the wall to start his second lap, Jounouchi desperately kicked himself to the same point. He was shorter; his limbs couldn't displace as much water, yet there was Jounouchi at the corners of Seto’s goggles, upsetting the water, bending the entire pool to his will.

Seto reached the end of lap six and had gained enough to beat Jounouchi by a few meters. He held to the edge of the pool, out of breath, resting his forehead against its lip. Jounouchi arrived even more exhausted, gasping louder, grasping tighter to the edge. His cap had fled, lying somewhere at the bottom of the pool, and his hair had flattened entirely, forming a curtain that covered the top half of his face. Beneath it, he beamed, choking out a laugh.

He clapped Seto on the shoulder, "Hey, thanks,” and leaned over the edge, resting his cheek upon the tiles. Jounouchi looked like some blond, beached sea creature. The water's reflection played on his face. "I forgot what it felt like to compete with you."

"I'll get your cap," Seto said, and dove underwater to find it.

Fortunately, the cap stood out against the uniform square tiles due to its lumpy and shapeless form. The gentle current caused it to move slightly, as if trying to imitate a jellyfish, but it was more suited to be ocean trash. 

Jounouchi received it, having sat at the edge of the pool. His stomach was still a little red where Seto had pinched it.

"I'm going to hang out with Mokuba."

Seto found him floating face up on the shallow end of the pool. He didn't seem to have noticed that anyone had said his name.

"I swore myself to twenty laps today."

"Twenty more?"

"No, just fourteen."

" _ Just fourteen _ — " Jounouchi stood. "He says it like it's nothing." He stretched, cracked his back. "Well have fun, if you can."

"I'm not doing this for fun," Seto said, "but thanks," and slipped beneath the surface.

***

That time, he went at a more structured pace, allowing his face to surface at the right time, arms moving at the right angles — smooth, removed from the desperation of victory, which tasted like salt water.

The pool was calm without Jounouchi tearing through it, and cold, as he requested. Too warm and he would want to drift aimlessly on his back, get lost in the high arch of the ceiling.

_ Bougie _ —

Instead, Seto admired the tiles as he passed over them. He caught glimpses of Mokuba and Jounouchi's legs as they were sitting at the other side of the pool. Their arms dipped in and out of the water in conversation. They seemed to laugh, kick their legs, maybe regard the ceiling.

When Seto emerged, closing his 20th lap by yanking himself out of the water, they had gone quiet as though his swimming had taken the breath out of their lungs. There was an absence; he had heard their voices when he would come up for air, but now they sat, watching him.

Mokuba had a semi-culpable expression — that caught-gossiping look, while Jounouchi held a practiced poker face. He spoke before anyone could make anything of it. "Hey, you ready to go?"

"Yeah," Seto said. "I'm ready."

***

The three of them dried, dressed, and left the locker room with their heavy winter coats and damp hair.

"Thanks for having me," Jounouchi said as they approached the exit. "I can't say I've been swimming in the winter before."

"You should join us again sometime," Mokuba elbowed him. "Maybe if you get enough practice you could beat Seto in a race." 

"Yeah, right. Like he would ever let me win."

"I wouldn't." Seto crossed his arms, "But who knows. If you keep coming back, I might beat you by fewer and fewer seconds."

It had begun to snow outside, fresh white littering the sidewalk and the foliage.

"Jounouchi, do you need a ride back?"

"What, are you worried I'll catch a cold?" Jounouchi put his fist down. "I appreciate the offer, but I have to run some errands. I'll text you later though." He came and caught Seto in a brief, hard hug. Upon impact, it felt more like a body slam. "Good seeing you again, Mokuba." He started toward the door. 

"Good seeing you too."

With that, Jounouchi left, pulling out his phone to begin navigating. Seto and Mokuba remained, waiting for the car to arrive. They were steady as the snowfall, unspeaking. Seto , unmoving. Then the driver pulled up to take them back to their mansion. 


	5. Chapter 5

That morning, Seto awoke with a jolt. It would happen sometimes, about an hour before his alarm clock was set to ring. Then he would lay there. His limbs were stiff, despite the early morning light unrolling over his face like an offensive tongue. By the angle on that particular day, and the fact that it shined entirely over his left eye, he estimated it to be about six. His phone confirmed his suspicions. 

If asked why this would happen, Seto wouldn’t have an answer. He would often wake up feeling as if he had been swallowed whole by a monster a little too small. Confined in its stomach, his body would tense, sweat out of every crevice, or maybe that was the acid. Impossible to tell. Then it would be morning, leaving Seto feeling spat out and amnesic. 

It felt as though someone had taken their thumbs and were pressing down on the soft skin beneath his eyes. They would be red when he encountered them in the mirror, he was sure. 

There was a gentle knock at the door and Mokuba pushed it open. 

“Seto?” 

He didn’t answer right away. “Yes?” 

Mokuba stepped inside, quietly, lingering at the foot of the bed. His face filled with sympathy at Seto’s palpable exhaustion. “What time did you get to sleep last night?”

“I don’t remember. You want to ask me something?” 

“Yeah — I was talking to my friends yesterday and I asked them if they would ever be interested in coming here and uh — ” He sighed, barely. “They said they would love to. So before inviting them, I wanted to ask if Friday night would be okay — this week?” Mokuba shifted the weight of his school bag from one leg to the other. It sounded heavy with textbooks. “If that doesn’t work out — ”

“No.” Seto propped himself up. “Tell them they’re welcome to come here.” 

“Will do,” but still, Mokuba remained. “Don’t work too hard today, if you can help it.” 

“That’s not an option.” Seto rubbed his eyes. “Your bag isn’t too heavy, is it? I don’t want you to hurt your back.” 

“No, it’s fine.” Mokuba hurried off. “See you later.” 

“Have a good day at school.” 

Mokuba slowly closed the door behind him, dragging gently across the hardwood floor. It shut with a click and Seto collapsed back into his mattress, comforter falling over him. He had about ten minutes to stare at the ceiling before the alarm clock screeched him out of bed. 

*** 

Seto had arrived in the kitchen, his tie a notch too tight, and made espresso by using his expensive, complicated coffee machine. Whenever anyone approached, it would light up — _ Oh, I am so ready to serve you _ —and advertise all of the different things it could do: foamed milk, lattes, rich hot chocolate, balanced sweeteners — anything, everything. But Seto drank his coffee black and his espresso blacker. Still, the machine prepared his drinks with the same amount of enthusiasm, singing its three-note song when finished. They never had the conversation that the coffee maker could have better served another man. 

A no-sleep special, Seto arranged five shot glasses along the counter’s edge, pouring a mouthful of espresso into each of them. Even the smell conjured images of distilled paint thinner, but Seto didn’t allow himself to cringe. He hadn’t earned that yet. He measured each of them equally and placed his hands against the counter. Behind him, the housekeepers were beginning to file in, quietly wiping down surfaces, purging the dust from the difficult corners of his tall house. He had never told them not to speak to him; they just knew. Not one of them had ever launched a shiny “ _ Ohayo gozaimasu _ ” in his direction. Yet, they felt like an audience.

Seto took in a deep breath. He only had about three minutes, so he downed all five shots. The glasses met the counter with a hard clink, which drew the attention of some of the housekeepers. They briefly glanced over, maybe caught one of the glasses stagger and topple over, maybe caught Seto drain the third, fourth, fifth shot, caught him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. It lasted all of twenty seconds before he balanced the glasses on his fingers and left them in the sink. Then he was heading downstairs to the car. The housekeepers bowed as he passed. One of them would wash the glasses, probably look to the others and say something like, “That guy…” 

***

That morning had gifted him a steady stream of emails and clusters of annoying calls his secretary didn’t have the authority to address. Hands shaking, he answered them; he picked up the phone, listened — he always listened, then yelled, hung up. Lunch arrived. His secretary brought it — ratatouille and a conservative serving of steak with a pot of coffee. He was too souped up to crash now. If he stopped, it would be catastrophic, he told her. So she made it just as he liked it: bitter as poison with no redeeming qualities. She seemed on the verge of suggesting caffeine pills but never mustered the courage to cross that line. 

Seto ate, caffeinated, and to avoid sitting still, texted Jounouchi.  _ Are you free? _ And Jounouchi, probably also eating lunch, called. 

Seto answered with the business end of the conversation. “What do college students like to eat?” 

“Nice to talk to you too, buddy.” As predicted, Jounouchi stuffed something into his mouth. “What? You can’t spare a ‘Hello, how are you doing?’ Who am I to you?  _ An employee? _ ”

Seto sighed. “How are you, Jounouchi?” 

“I’m doing great, man. How are you?” 

“I’ve been better.” 

“Aah, I’m sorry to hear that — ” his lips smacked. Seto momentarily distanced his phone from his ear. “Are you having a hard day?”

“Look — I don’t have much time to get into it. Can I please ask you my question?” 

“Yeah, sure. What was it again?” 

“What do college students like to eat at parties?” 

“Is this the setup for a joke?” 

“When have I ever told a  _ joke? _ ” Jounouchi was eating again. Seto turned to the Domino cityscape, overcast in grey. “Mokuba is having some friends over this Friday, and well — I haven’t had guests in years, much less college kids.” 

“I’m sure anything would be okay. They really haven’t come over before?” 

“No.” Seto turned his chair back around, facing his half-eaten lunch. He picked up the silver fork, didn’t do anything with it. “Mokuba is embarrassed of me.” 

“ _ What? _ No way — ”

“I’m sure of it. He won’t let the drivers take him to school. He never brings anyone to visit. His friends are probably  _ normal _ people.” The fork’s prongs rang against the delicate porcelain plate. “I’m beginning to wonder if I should buy another, smaller house for Friday so he can keep up the act.” 

Jounouchi paused, likely wondering if  _ that _ was a joke. “I mean — ” he settled, “The moment they see you, it’s game over. I don’t think there’s anyone in this city who wouldn’t recognize you.” 

“ _ Should I put on a disguise too? _ ” His hands were shaking again. “I’m almost certain he omits his last name when he introduces himself.”

“ _ Kaiba _ ,” on the other end, it sounded as though Jounouchi set his chopsticks down. “I think his friends probably know he’s related to you, and maybe it took him a while, but he  _ is  _ bringing them around. Anyone could see that he cares just by looking at you two, so there’s no need to become Saiba Keto, okay? Just, you know — ” He shifted. The phone picked up a patch of static. “Get them a few boxes of pizza, ask them what they’re majoring in, and let them hang out. I’m sure they’re going to be stoked to meet you.” 

Seto breathed out. “Saiba Keto, huh?” 

“Yeah, who would suspect? You could slap on a pair of glasses and walk into a new life.” Jounouchi laughed while Seto leaned further back into his chair. It creaked in granting him a fuller view of the white-paneled ceiling, all maddeningly uniform.

“What’s so great about being normal?” 

“Nothing,” Jounouchi answered. “Absolutely nothing.” 

“Well — ” Seto sat upright again. “I’ll consider adding pizza to the list. Talk to you later, Kounouchi — ” and hung up just as Jounouchi began to holler. 

***

Between the emails and phone calls, Seto studied the ceiling tiles, numbering them. His employees, his associates, everyone expected him to know and remember all of their messages’ contents, undoubtedly filed somewhere inside his brilliant mind. They thought he had a compartment for everything, that he would know all the coordinates of where his company had sunk its talons, but that left a lot of bloody holes and Seto’s genius didn’t grant him photographic memory.

So, as the emails built up, he spaced out and touched a particularly unpleasant memory, where he was hollering at Mokuba in the living room. 

His acceptance letter to Domino University had arrived, the top school in the country. Better yet, Mokuba had gotten in on test scores alone. That’s all they considered — the scores. After spending so many nights with English, math, and science textbooks yawning open, his hard work manifested with a fabulous letterhead and crimson seal. Seto called him downstairs, and Mokuba came neutrally, resting his hand against the banister. He didn’t descend from the final step.

“Look — ” Seto said, holding out the letter. His mouth had nearly arrived at a genuine smile — a phenomenon that hadn’t taken place in years. 

“Oh,” Mokuba took it, not quite meeting his eyes. Seto’s guts lurched. “I wasn’t sure if I would get in — ” The golden letters glinted like a knife. “I already accepted Maria University’s offer. I hope that’s okay.” 

There was a moment of calm, of composition as Mokuba’s words sank in. Seto digested them. Then he grew fangs and spat them out. 

He could have said anything.  _ You what?! _ Or maybe,  _ How could you do that after everything we’ve worked for _ ?! or even more commonly,  _ You better start explaining _ . 

Mokuba tried. There was something about  _ I just really like the campus _ , or,  _ I know a few people who will be going there _ , or,  _ their courses looked the most interesting _ , but Seto kept yelling, and Mokuba kept his head low. 

“ _ Look at me! _ ” Seto demanded. 

Mokuba did. He existed somewhere between crying and yelling himself. He crushed the acceptance letter in his hand, made his choice. “ _ Will you stop?! _ ”

There was yet another stillness. Mokuba’s voice had somehow grown so deep, as if he had been secretly building himself into a man right under Seto’s nose. He too could rattle the walls and windows. Seto stopped. 

“You don’t get to chain me to my desk and then tell me where I’m going to go — who I’m going to  _ be _ ! I applied to all of those schools so I would have a  _ choice _ .” If there were ever going to be tears, they had already burned away. “ _ Like it even matters! _ I’m never going to escape our name! It follows me wherever I go, no matter what I do.  _ We’re doomed for success _ . So you don’t need to worry,  _ but thank you for your concern, nii-sama _ .”

Mokuba balled up the letter, tossed it onto the floor, then walked up the stairs. Seto remembered calling after him, but maybe he hadn’t. The door slammed.

He still had the letter in his office drawer. If Mokuba had enrolled, he would have immortalized it in an expensive frame, hung it upon the wall amongst the pictures and pictures and pictures of him. Instead, he caught a glimpse of it sometimes, never pulling it out. Its wrinkled skin drew goosebumps across his own. He couldn't throw it away, nor ask Mokuba to reconsider, but he tried to iron it out. He took a cloth to protect it from the heat and water, but nothing worked. He had to stop. The iron was warping the letterhead and he was turning the paper to pulp, but it was proof that Mokuba was  _ so _ smart and  _ so _ capable, so he kept it. They didn’t discuss it thereafter. 

The sun began to tuck itself into Domino’s mountains, casting the office in burnt pink. Seto texted Mokuba,  _ What do your friends like to eat? _

Mokuba replied:  _ Pretty much anything, but don’t worry about it. We usually all bring something to share.  _

Seto held his breath, hovered over the small green call button of Mokuba’s contact page. He pressed it, getting through after three rings. Of course, Seto spoke first. “I’m going to worry about it.” 

Mokuba suppressed a laugh. “I know, but you really don’t have to. Our game nights are always super casual and only last a few hours anyway. We probably won’t even leave the living room.” 

“Mokuba,” both sides grew silent. “It’s important to me to make your friends feel welcome, and I know they will be because they’ll be happy to see you, but — ” Seto watched as the sunset transitioned to purple. “I’ll feel better if you let me contribute.” 

“Okay,” Mokuba said. “Miyuki was talking earlier about how she wanted to eat macarons but couldn’t afford them. I think that would be nice, if you don’t mind.” 

“Done.” 

“Thanks.” Mokuba could be heard scribbling something on a piece of paper. “Will you be coming back soon?” 

“I still have some things to straighten out.” 

“Oh, okay. I’ll see you when you get home if I’m not in bed — ”

“Wait.” 

“Hmm?” 

Mokuba was writing something else, but stopped. The purple darkened, and the light from Seto’s computer screen dominated the room.

“When we were at the pool, what were you talking to Jounouchi about?” 

“Oh — ” The phone sounded as though it fumbled. “Umm, I’ve been trying to work out a way to tell you.” 

Seto waited. 

“One of the girls coming on Friday, Tsukiko — uh, well. We’ve been going out. She’s my girlfriend.” 

“Your girlfriend?” Seto leaned back. “How long have you been dating?” 

“About three months now. We met in one of my economics classes last semester and things have just been progressing from there, you know?” 

He didn’t.

“I finally mustered the courage to tell her and it turns out she was getting close to confessing too. We went for our first date the day after that.” 

“You told Jounouchi all of this?” 

“I mean, you know him. He just has a way of getting you to talk.” 

He did. 

“It’s silly, but I wasn’t sure how to tell you. Not that you’d be angry or anything, but — I guess I was worried that you wouldn’t believe me for some reason.” 

“Of course I believe you.” Upon the computer screen, more emails had appeared. Left unattended for too long, they had begun to copulate. “When I get home, I want you to show me a picture of her — of all your friends, so I can put faces to their names.” 

“Okay, I’ll pull some up. Although Miyuki and Toshiro might be buried in my phone. I have so many of Tsukiko...” 

“I expect you do.” Seto paused, looking at nothing in particular. “I have to get back to work. I’ll see you later.” 

“Alright, see you!” 

Seto hung up, tucked his phone into his pocket. All of the coffee, even the no-sleep special, was wearing off, but the emails, fruitful and debaucherous as they were, were manageable. He could finish if he maintained his pace a little longer, and he would. He always did. 

*** 

Friday, and Seto stood before his bathroom mirror. His driver had gone to pick up Mokuba and his friends — something Mokuba had agreed to because he didn’t want to subject them to the long walk from the train station. They would arrive within twenty minutes. 

Seto had dressed casually, a light blue sweater this time. That was it for his casual clothes — a white sweater, a blue sweater. He had bought them at the same time. The rest of his wardrobe was either business professional or dueling jackets, both veering toward the dramatic. 

Seto checked his phone again, and the pictures he had saved onto it of Mokuba’s friends. The first was of Tsukiko, sitting upon the ledge of a wall, holding a tall strawberry ice cream cone. They looked as though they were at the park, a picnic table behind them and a few stray trees. 

The light obscured her face by bounding from her glasses, but Seto could still make out her long black hair, her heart-shaped face, her wide smile. “This is one of my favorites of her,” Mokuba had said when he showed Seto. His voice sounded dreamy. 

Then there were Miyuki and Toshiro, who were also a couple. This one was a selfie, taken by Miyuki with her face pushed against his. Her hair was dyed in pastel purple, black roots showing and eyes heavy with makeup. He was dressed in a dusty baseball uniform with his head shaved, tan from outdoor sports — she, pale from indoor art projects, but with their tongues hanging out and their arms wrapped around each other, they communicated a similar chaotic energy. 

He had about fifteen minutes. 

_ Tsukiko, Miyuki, Toshiro _ ... 

Seto sent Jounouchi a text.  _ Mokuba’s friends will be here soon _ . 

He didn’t answer back right away, perhaps in the middle of an autograph signing, or a photoshoot, or maybe even a duel. His reply arrived a few minutes later,  _ you got this!!!  _ Followed by a string of fire emojis. 

_ Thank you _ . 

Seto went downstairs to wait, matching their names with each step.  _ Tsukiko, Miyuki, Toshiro _ —

***

He sat in his chair, behind the wide, low-sitting table which held the tower of macarons. They were arranged by color in neat rows, pink, green, purple, gold, with a large white bow at its base. Upon first glance, it resembled a powdered wig. 

He had ordered two boxes of pizza, which sat at the table’s corner, along with delicate white plates whose trim wove itself into tiny onions along the edges. Those were from Germany. Seto had also put out the heavy silver forks and knives, even though everything on the table was finger food. Just in case. 

Then he heard the car pull up. As he had asked, the driver had brought them to the front door, and already he could hear their voices, breathless.  _ Wow _ —

“This is it,” Mokuba told them, and there they were — wide-eyed, impressed, Tsukiko, Miyuki, Toshiro, spilling inside, removing their shoes,  _ Ojyamashimas _ ing. 

Tsukiko was the first to notice Seto, greeting him with that wide smile. Without the lens fare, her big brown eyes became apparent behind her heavy glasses, magnified by them. “Ah, Kaiba- _ san _ ,” She spoke gently as he approached, and presented a house-warming gift with outstretched arms. Bowing, her glasses slid along the bridge of her nose. “Thank you for allowing us to come to your home.” 

“A gift?” He accepted it with both hands. “You didn’t need to do that, Tsukiko, but I appreciate it.” 

“Oh,” she rose, correcting her glasses. “It’s actually from all of us.” 

“In that case — ” Seto looked at all of them, “Thank you too, Miyuki and Toshiro.” 

Miyuki bowed, her jean jacket exploding with buttons clattering against one another. She was holding a cloth bag stuffed with various kinds of potato chips, crinkling every time they brushed past her leg. “It’s nice to meet you, Kaiba- _ san _ .” 

Toshiro was less composed, his star-struck eyes fixed on Seto. He finally bowed when Miyuki elbowed him. “ _ It’s an honor to meet you, sir! _ ” 

“You’ll have to excuse him,” Miyuki put her hands on Toshiro’s shoulders in an effort to bring him back up. “He’s been freaking out about this all day.” 

“ _ Miyuki _ ! Don’t tell him that — ” 

“ _ Why not? _ It’s totally obvious you’re nerding out right now, you dork. Just tell him the truth.”

Finally, Toshiro resurfaced. “It’s true, Kaiba- _ san _ . I’ve been a huge fan of yours ever since I was a kid, watching you duel on TV. I can’t believe I’m standing in your house right now — ” He bowed again. 

“Well, don’t let me make you nervous. I want all of you to relax.” He turned, “Come on, you don’t have to stand at the front door,” and started walking. “Unless you want to.” 

“ _ He’s just so cool _ — ” Toshiro whispered loudly to Miyuki as the four of them finally entered the living room.

***

Seto went upstairs to put the gift in his office and ended up opening it. He stood in the pale moonlight of the window like a thief, freeing the edges of the wrapping paper. He felt how heavy it was when he snuck his finger under it, the smoothness of the colorless side. One of their mothers must have picked it out when she heard. 

_ Kaiba Seto? _ Don’t you know he has more money than  _ God? _

He removed the paper, revealing a small portrait, a floral-printed envelope jammed into its corner. Before reading it, Seto looked at the painting, a rendition of a Blue Eyes White Dragon, dressed as a courtly lady posing for a profile portrait. She—presumably—had long eyelashes rendered delicately in silver and a sky-blue gown reminiscent to what Marie Antionette might wear. A Dragon Queen, of course. Seto would have been offended if the painting weren’t done in such brilliant detail. Pieces of it resembled a photograph, the frills of the dress, her ornate pearl necklace, the rows of sharp white teeth playfully arranged into a grin. 

Seto opened the letter. 

_ Dear Kaiba-san _ , 

_ Thank you for allowing us to come to your home. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a while now. Miyuki, Toshiro, and I had a difficult time deciding what to bring as a housewarming gift, but we hope this suffices. Mokuba had told us about both your love of art and Blue Eyes White Dragons, but we also wanted to offer you something handmade that we could all contribute to. As such, Miyuki painted the picture, Toshiro chose the frame, and I wrote the letter. We _ _ —at least Toshiro and I—hope you don’t find it too strange, as we also wanted to give you something entirely unique.  _

_ Thank you again,  _

They had all signed their names:  _ Tsukiko, Miyuki, and Toshiro. _

Seto took the portrait to his bookshelf and placed it next to one of Mokuba’s. 

His guests were chatting downstairs, their voices bright and cheerful, but obscure. Only pieces of them made it underneath the office door.

Seto had promised he would bring them water, because in the fuss over the macaron tower, the pizza, the plates, he had forgotten drinks. So he filled a pitcher, slotted four wine glasses between his fingers, and wandered into the joyous noise downstairs. It was clearer now; they were talking about their classes. They would be polite enough to whisper if they were discussing him. 

Seto placed the pitcher on the table, then the glasses. “Don’t get excited,” he told them. “It’s only water.” 

They laughed. In his absence, they had set up a board game, taken a few slices of pizza. Someone had opened a bag of potato chips. Miyuki had eaten a hole on one side of the tower, forgoing a plate to instead claim one macaron at a time directly from the source. Eventually, they would have to rotate the dish for her. Good _.  _ They looked at home. 

“Let me know if you need anything else. It was nice meeting all of you.” Seto said, and began to make his way toward the staircase. 

The four of them went quiet. 

“Do you have some work to do?” Mokuba asked. 

Seto turned, hesitated, and told the truth. “I was going to leave you alone.” 

The room was silent enough to hear the macarons settling, the pizza growing cold. Tsukiko was the first to speak up. “You don’t need to do that, Kaiba- _ san _ . We’d be happy to spend time with you.” 

“Yeah — ” Miyuki wiped the raspberry filling from her mouth. “We saved you a game piece. Mokuba said you would want the blue one.” 

“It seems wrong that we wouldn’t want you to play with us after you’ve been so generous.” Toshiro had spoken confidently, but as soon as Seto met his eyes, he hid his face inside his shirt. 

“If you’re sure.” 

“We’re sure.” Mokuba held out the blue piece, shaped vaguely like a bowling pin, or maybe a person, and patted the spot next to him. They were moving to make room, and he accepted it, tucking his long legs beneath the table. 

*** 

Surrounding the game board, they moved their pieces around its edges, collected thin, colorful money, traded it, lost their assets. Miyuki kept eating macarons, playfully arguing with Toshiro, pinching him on the cheek as Mokuba and Tsukiko exchanged meaningful glances, secretly holding hands beneath the table. Seto drew cards. Everytime he would reach for one, Toshiro watched, intent. He seemed to sprout at least one or two beads of sweat in being too shy to ask him to say it — what all duelists said in taking a card, the sacred covenant. Seto obliged him. 

“ _ Draw _ — _! _ ” He engaged the full arc of his arm, the drama, yet the stoicism. “This card allows me to take 20,000 yen from the bank, and so ends my turn.” 

Toshiro squealed; the others laughed. Seto maintained his serious demeanor. They found that even funnier. 

Tsukiko was next and followed suit. “That was a good move, Kaiba- _ san _ — ” She adjusted her glasses, causing them to flash in the bright overhead lights. “But let’s see if you can beat this — ” The others were giggling. “ _ Roll! _ ” She threw the die across the table. It landed on five. “I advance five spaces!” She commanded her lime-green piece, adjusting her glasses again. “With this card — ” Everyone other than Seto leaned forward. “I can force one player to move back three spaces — ” She slapped it onto the table, as if summoning a monster, “ _ and I choose _ — ” Her voice then became sweet, normal. “Mokuba.” 

Seto cracked a smile. 

“ _ Aaargh! _ ” Mokuba gripped the table as if an enemy dragon had torched away his life points. “ _ Tsukiko _ , how could you?  _ I thought _ — I thought we were working as a team...”

“ _ A team? _ ” Tsukiko put her hand delicately before her lips, laughed — _ fufufu _ . “I’m sorry you ever believed something so naive, Mokuba. For in this game there is only one winner — _ and that’s going to be me! _ ” She moved his piece back three spaces. 

Miyuki ate another macaron.

Mokuba pretended to writhe, wipe the invisible blood from the corner of his mouth. “Then by this, I vow my revenge.  _ Roll! _ ” and upon finishing his turn, whispered to Tsukiko, “but seriously, have you dueled before?” 

“I know my way around many card games.”

They hollered in the living room, laughing up to the ceiling, until Miyuki had won without realizing it. She then made them take a photo together, procuring a selfie stick from her backpack to fit all of them into the frame. First, the normal version, then the silly one. They turned their eyelids inside out or rolled their lips into thin lines, exposing their gums. Seto looked exactly the same between both versions. He sat up straight, hardly smiled.

Soon after that, Tsukiko, Miyuki, and Toshiro prepared to leave. They thanked him profusely and helped tidy up. He sent them off with vibrant bags fat with macarons. “I hope you’ll come again,” then the reply: “We’d be happy to!” 

Mokuba walked them to the car and spent a long time outside, perhaps hugging them goodbye, perhaps sneaking Tsukiko kisses. In the interim, he sent the photos they had taken together and returned just as Seto began saving them onto his phone. 

He clicked their front door softly closed. “Seto — ” he said, “they love you.” 

“Good.” The second image finished downloading. Tsukiko had snuck bunny ears atop Mokuba’s head again. “I’m glad they had a nice time.” 

“Did you?” Mokuba asked. He had succeeded in removing his first shoe. The entrance appeared lonesome without the crowd of footwear. 

“I did.” 

“Good!” Mokuba freed his second foot and arranged his shoes neatly by the door. “I’m happy you decided to play with us after all. It wouldn’t have been the same without you.” He approached, caught Seto in a hug. He smelled vaguely of Tsukiko’s perfume. “Maybe we can have them over again sometime.” 

“Of course we can.” 

***

Laying in bed, Seto illuminated his face with the white light of his cellphone. 11:14. He opened his ongoing conversation with Jounouchi and attached both pictures, sent them. The reply was instantaneous. 

_ Looks fun! _ Punctuated by a happy-face, mouth wide-open.

_ It was _ . 

As Jounouchi responded, Seto closed his eyes. There would be no meeting the next day — maybe phone calls, definitely emails, but no need for any no-sleep specials. No need for coffee at all. He surrendered his consciousness with his atoms buzzing — _ no need for monsters either _ , and devoured sleep. 


	6. Chapter 6

March took the edge off of the cold and swept the snow from the ground. It made the days longer, extending the sunset’s five o’ clock deadline to six. The nights became less depressing, but in a way that made the entire city long for summer, T-shirts under their coats, short skirts paired with warm tights. 

March also meant that Jounouchi was thrust into the spotlight yet again. It was his turn to progress further into the national tournament, against an opponent Seto had also seen printed on the sides of buses. He watched their match from his home office, the room having grown dark. Seto didn’t bother turning on the lights. It was closer that way — just him and the colors flashing on the screen. 

He wasn’t able to catch it live, though Jounouchi had texted him right before the match. Seto imagined him sitting in his stylist’s chair.  _ I’m about to duel. wish me luck.  _ No emojis. This was serious. 

_ If you know what you’re doing, you won’t need luck.  _ Then:  _ Humiliate him. _

Seto knew how the match would end. Jounouchi had called as soon as he escaped the cameras, spoiling every detail, “and then he — oh my god, and I thought I would — ” Yet, Seto watched anyway. Jounouchi had sold him on it. 

They were more evenly matched this time, both having dressed in their team colors. Professional duelists. They whittled each other down, switched upper hands, face-down cards, a minefield of traps. It came to the point where Jounouchi had three hundred life points and his opponent had five. It could end at any moment, by a single card. Seto leaned forward as Jounouchi kept his cool. The camera loved him. It had no qualms with giving him closeups, catching his eyes on fire, centering on his off-kilter smirk. Despite everything, he never gave his opponent more than that. Where had that come from? He used to get so upset. 

Then Jounouchi ended it. He won and dropped the act completely, sweeping his blond hair from his face as he bent backward with relief. The entire stadium screamed for him. They chanted his name — _ Jou-nou-chi! Jou-nou-chi! _ —as he met the other duelist in the middle of the field. Neither hesitated to hug each other. They had gone through the same ordeal.

The program cut to commercials. Seto sat a while longer before writing, simply,  _ You put on a great show.  _ Jounouchi called seconds later. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey! I was just about to text you but you beat me to it. How’s it going?” 

“Well enough. How are you?” 

“I’m great. I finished up all of my business in Saikoro City and I’m waiting on the train to get back to Domino, but — ” he sounded as though he were walking. Seto imagined him hoisting his bag up from the ground. Maybe it too had pineapples printed all over it. “I wanted to ask you — would uh, would you want to get dinner with me and Yugi on Sunday? We usually go to this ramen stand. It’s kind of a secret spot and probably not fancy enough for you — ”

“With Yugi?” 

“Yeah, I was talking about you and he wondered how you’ve been, so he suggested inviting you. What do you think?” There was the sound of a train departing. He must have been near his platform. 

“Tell me what you told Yugi first.” 

“ _ Kaiba _ , come on. I wasn’t talking trash, if that’s what you’re getting at.” 

“If you weren’t talking trash, tell me what you said.” Seto was smirking. 

“You just love being difficult, don’t you?” It sounded like Jounouchi was too. “You know, I was saying how you contacted me after I won that duel, and how you seem like less of a jerk now — although, I’m not so sure at this particular moment. So are you coming or not?” 

“Jounouchi,” Seto poised. “Are you saying that I was a jerk before?” 

“Before, last week, yesterday, today, tomorrow, forever! You were probably born with that smug look on your face,  _ so why are you asking? _ ” 

“Does this mean I’m still invited to dinner?” 

“ _ Yes! _ ”

“Alright then,” Seto said, “text me the time and address. Have a safe trip back to Domino,” and hung up in the middle of Jounouchi’s cry.  _ Rich boy! _ Then he woke up the computer. The television’s advertisements had ended and a panel of analysts discussed footage of the duel. He would normally turn it off, but they replayed the most intense moments, the best parts. He allowed it to continue as the backdrop of his otherwise dull emails. 

***

Sunday, Seto had managed to take his formal clothes and make them look somewhat casual — a robin’s egg blue collared shirt, its first two buttons left undone. No tie. Steely grey slacks. An almost black jacket that stopped along the backs of his knees. That one was special because it was sewn with silver thread, the work so fine that its borders appeared solid. Tragically expensive. 

Seto spritzed himself with cologne, left side of his neck, right side, interrogated himself in the mirror. He indulged the thought of sweeping his hair back, showing his forehead for once — _ a scandal _ , but as soon as he snuck his hand beneath it, it felt like treason. He brushed out his bangs again and left. 

There was no one to say goodbye to as he made his way to the car. Mokuba was out with Tsukiko, so he was left with his driver’s respectful bow, the soft noise he made in his throat, the solemn shutting of the car door. The engine was silent as it started and they were pulling out of the garage to go to Yugi’s game shop.

***

Having arrived a few minutes early, Seto waited in the car, which his driver had parked across the street. The shop looked exactly as it had in high school, though he had only been once — its blocky, garish letters, the old bronze bell above the door, the uppermost window that belonged to Yugi’s bedroom. It seemed kept up. None of the letters had burnt out. The bell shone as if freshly polished. 

It rang as a father left with his two children. He held a bag Seto presumed to be full of board games, merchandise. His two sons were tearing into new packs of trading cards — maybe Duel Monsters—while running around.  _ Look what I got! Look what I got!  _

The hands of Seto’s wristwatch lined up to six o’ clock. Yugi came outside, waved goodbye to them, locked the front door. He was still short, hair still wild.

6:01 and Seto was late. He opened the car door himself, “I’ll text you when I want you to come back,” and made his way over. 

Seto stood before the game shop’s entrance, trying to glance inside. He considered knocking, but Yugi had turned off the lights. Even in the dark, he could still make out the tidy shelves, the rows of games, the glass case of valuable Duel Monsters cards. 

“Hey, Kaiba!” 

For a split second, Seto leapt out of his skin.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just saw you walking over and thought I would meet you outside.” Yugi adjusted the bag he had with him, responsibly using both shoulder straps. “So, how have you been?” 

Seto told him as Yugi guided them to a nearby bench. As he explained it, Jounouchi would be there any minute and they would start walking to the ramen stand. 

They were strange sitting next to each other and both were painfully aware of it — Seto’s knees rising because the bench was a little too low; Yugi’s feet just touching the ground. There was the matter of their dress, Seto as someone  _ going to dinner _ , and Yugi — just out of work. They were attracting stares from various by-standers, pedestrians, normies. The King of Games and the man always in second place — the president of that one company... 

Seto glared at them in a way that said,  _ we’re not giving out signatures _ , simultaneously updating Yugi. He showed him Mokuba’s obligatory coming-of-age day pictures. He’s in college, second year, economics major. He has a girlfriend now. 

Yugi handed back Seto’s phone. “You must be really proud of him,” and then, “but what are you up to? How is Kaiba Corp?”

The light from Mokuba’s photo underlit Seto’s face. It cast him in severe shadows, darkening the bags beneath his eyes. The screen turned off. “We’re manufacturing a new duel disk, for  _ casual _ players. A lighter-weight model, probably a little less  _ expensive _ .” 

“That’s a great idea,” Yugi leaned back, crossed one leg over the other. “I’ve had a few customers who have asked me for that kind of thing sometimes, if there’s a smaller duel disk, or even a less expensive one. I think casual players are a little surprised at what an investment it is, but now more people will be able to enjoy the game at a professional level, even without as much experience.” 

The streetlight near their bench turned on, buzzing. The ones across the way blinked on as night fell — some nocturnal creature opening all its eyes. 

“That’s true,” Seto said. “I was mostly irritated when the idea was presented to me, but you’re right. More people will be able to enjoy it.” 

Yugi laughed. “It is hard to remember that other people play for fun after taking it so seriously for so long. Let me know if you need someone to test them out.” 

“Are you challenging me to a duel?”

“For fun. I’m sure Jounouchi would be happy to try it out too.” 

“Hey, hope you’re not waiting on me!” 

Both Seto and Yugi turned to find Jounouchi. He had dressed in his leather dueling jacket and had tucked his hands into his jean pockets, probably cold. Yugi got up to hug him.

“Sorry I’m late — ” Jounouchi squeezed Yugi, who squeezed back, as if they were lovingly trying to crush each other to death. “I missed my train and had to wait for the next one. Luckily, it was just a few minutes or else I would’ve had to cancel.” 

Seto walked over, placed his own hands in his pockets. “I would have sent my driver for you.” 

Jounouchi grinned, still holding onto Yugi. He looked different; they had cut his hair, reigned in his bangs, shaped his eyebrows — something he wouldn’t have consented to. Jounouchi, but famous — the version teenage girls would post on their walls and border in heart stickers. “Are you saying you wouldn't want to have dinner alone with my good friend Yugi?” 

“You promised both of you. Let’s stick to the plan.”

Jounouchi smelled fresh from the shower and his clothes straight from the laundry. There was that too. 

“Are we going?”

“What’d I tell you, Yugi? Less of a jerk but still bossy as hell. I guess we better take off before he tries to fire us.” 

“I would need to hire you first and your prospects aren’t looking good.” 

Jounouchi and Yugi laughed and laughed, finally separating and leading the way. 

***

They walked until the city buildings transitioned into houses and the landscape cleared for grasslands full of stray cats, little rivers bordered by chain-link fences. Jounouchi and Yugi talked, elbowing each other, reciting inside jokes. They still tossed Seto a question every now and then. At one point Jounouchi was kind enough to slow down and gently bump into him. It wasn’t as irritating as it should have been. “How are you doing back here?” he asked, “How was your day?” They chatted. Jounouchi poked fun: “Didn’t you read the invite? It said dinner  _ casual _ .”

Eventually, they came to a mostly empty field in the suburbs somewhere, a ramen stand dropped directly in the middle of it. It shone bright orange like the flame of a lighter, blond wood, red paper lanterns, steam rising. The old man working inside it caught them standing there. He ran his hands over his apron, wiped the sweat from his brow, and started pulling noodles. Seto, Jounouchi, and Yugi took the only three seats. He handed them menus — laminated computer paper and pulling apart at the seams. 

“You two want your usual?” 

Sheepishly, Jounouchi and Yugi handed back their menus. “Yeah…” 

Wordlessly, he started cooking. Seto watched him over the corner of his menu — placing the handmade noodles into small metal baskets, submerging them in the boiling water. He chopped the vegetables, measured by his knuckles guiding the blade. He produced even cuts of green onion, mushroom, and sprouts. He parted the shells of soft-boiled eggs perfectly from their pliable, inner flesh. 

Then he turned to Seto, measuring spices and oils without needing to look. “Have you decided yet?” He was missing teeth at the far end of his mouth. 

“I’ll take the shoyu,” Seto said, handing back the menu. 

The man kept working, more noodles, more vegetables, more broth, measured, consistent, and delivered all three bowls around the same time. Jounouchi and Yugi barely completed their  _ Itadakimasu  _ before wrapping their chopsticks with noodles and slurping them up. 

Seto took in the soup’s aroma, delicate, but with a rich blend of spices. Before even tasting it, he could tell it wouldn’t be overly salted or oiled. With his chopsticks, he loaded a few noodles onto his spoon, disrupting the vegetables placed elegantly within the broth. 

“ _ Itadakimasu. _ ” 

Seto leaned his head back, sighed a little. Yugi and Jounouchi were looking at him, probably smiling at each other. He didn’t care. 

The man let them eat a while longer before taking a seat at the back of the stand and lighting a cigarette. He pushed the smoke from his nose before asking, “So who’s your friend?” He inhaled. The tip of his cigarette burned red. 

Seto beat both Jounouchi and Yugi to the answer. His mouth was clear. “I’m Saiba Keto,” he said, bowing. 

Jounouchi and Yugi instantaneously choked. 

“Saiba...Keto- _ san _ .” He took another drag from his cigarette. “You kids have funny names these days. Are you a duelist too?” The man didn’t seem to notice Jounouchi and Yugi staring at Seto. He preoccupied himself by blowing smoke to the ceiling. 

“No, I’m actually a pasta chef in training. I know these two because we were all best friends in high school.” Seto loaded his spoon. “We lost touch for a while because I had to focus on getting my little brother into college, but we’ve all connected again, thankfully.” 

The man nodded. “That reminds me of my own son. Getting him through high school was a headache and a half, but you have to watch out for your family.” 

By this point, Jounouchi was shaking Yugi, who was having a coughing fit. 

“Oh — ” The man took his cigarette from his mouth, waiting to breathe out. “I didn’t realize I was bothering you. I’ll smoke in the back.”

He exited the stand through the side door and disappeared, leaving Jounouchi and Yugi to stare at Seto, who finally ate his spoonful of noodles. ‘Best friends in high school?!’ Jounouchi mouthed. Yugi finally regained his composure. 

“What?” Seto asked, “Weren’t we?” 

“Jounouchi, where did you find this guy? I don’t think he’s the real Kaiba.” 

“I just said I wasn’t. Didn’t you hear me?  _ I’m Saiba Keto _ .” Seto drank a little broth, but turned his face so they wouldn’t see him grin. 

***

When they had finished eating, Seto paid for their meals. The man returned his change, bowed, wished him luck in culinary school. 

“Thank you,” Seto said. “Your ramen was delicious.” The three of them made their way back, the man waving from his stand. 

In getting far enough away, Jounouchi crashed into Seto again, this time knocking him off course. “What  _ was  _ that?” Jounouchi locked an arm around him, as if he would wrestle him to the ground. He only made their steps uneven. “Are you telling me that  _ Kaiba _ had  _ fun? _ ” 

“You’re going to scuff up my jacket,  _ Jounouchi _ , which is worth more than your life.” 

“What? You can’t afford another one, Rich Boy? Did buying us all dinner put you over the edge?” Jounouchi squeezed a little tighter before releasing him. “But that was awfully nice of you, so I’ll let you go. For now.” 

Yugi turned around. “Yeah, thanks Kaiba.” 

“It was literally nothing.” 

Jounouchi took a few steps to catch up with Yugi, and exchanged a knowing smirk with Seto, laughing to himself. Seto found it hard not to do the same. 

***

The path they followed back to the game shop was slightly different than the one they took going. They delved into a patch of unfamiliar houses, bigger than the ones they had walked through before. The neighborhood was dappled with spots of pink, green, sunshine yellow, and baby blue. The streetlights also took on a different shape —thin and elegant, light bulbs painfully round. 

Passing beneath them, Yugi had grown quieter, and Jounouchi walked by his side with his hand on his shoulder. Footprints took the place of conversation. Even the fenced-in river’s whispering barely made it above the silence. No stray cats dared yowl. 

They turned a corner and Yugi finally looked back at Seto. “I have to go take care of something. I should only be a few minutes.” Before Seto could respond, Yugi was off, heading down the street. 

“What’s — ” 

“You’ll see,” Jounouchi said. “I normally wait for him over here.” 

Seto and Jounouchi continued past a few more rows of houses, whose glowing amber windows dulled the bright-cold streetlights. All of them drowned out the stars. 

Jounouchi stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. He had brought Seto to a graveyard, elevated by stone steps and kept private by a grey brick wall. Past the entrance, Seto found a few well-kept headstones. A loved one had wiped them clean and set new flowers at their bases. Seto couldn’t see Yugi at all, but he must have been taking similar rites, maybe talking. 

“Sorry,” Jounouchi’s voice wasn’t much louder than a whisper. “I should have warned you, but we do this every Sunday night. Yugi’s too good to skip even once.” 

“I understand.” Seto listened. He thought he could hear a brush passing over a smooth rock face, but it could have been anything. “Is it his grandfather?” 

“Yeah,” Jounouchi said, almost to himself. 

They waited a few minutes longer, as the street lights hummed over the zipping and unzipping of a bag. Seto was sure he heard that, and then footsteps as Yugi descended onto the sidewalk. “Okay,” He let out a sigh, adjusting his backpack. “Thanks for waiting.” Maybe it was the harsh lighting, but his eyes looked raw. 

“Yugi,” Seto’s voice was quiet. “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

“Thank you.” Yugi glanced to some point along the sidewalk, past Seto. “We knew it would happen for a while. I’m just glad he’s at peace now.” He began walking again. “Come on. We’re pretty close to the game shop.” 

Seto regarded the graveyard a final time before following, the shadow of its brick wall and the ruthless clarity of the streetlight overhead. 

***

The three gathered outside Yugi’s front door, saying their goodbyes. Yugi unlocked the door, hugged Jounouchi, and addressed Seto. “Thanks for coming. I’m really glad you were able to make it.” 

“Thank you for inviting me.” 

“Oh, you can thank Jounouchi for that. He suggested bringing you along. Maybe you can come again sometime. I’m sure the owner would be happy to see you,  _ Saiba-san _ .” Yugi nearly shut the door. He spoke through the crack. “Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight,” Seto and Jounouchi replied. Then it was the two of them, neither taking the initiative. Seto had preoccupied himself, working his mouth into a smirk.

“What?” 

“You said on the phone that it was Yugi’s idea.” 

“I was sure it was.” 

Seto kept staring. 

“ _ What? _ Who cares whose idea it is? You’re acting like we haven’t been hanging out anyway. Is it that surprising I would invite you to dinner? I mean, Yugi did say that he hadn’t seen you in — _ Why are you looking at me that way? _ ” 

Seto was smiling. “Looking at you what way? Why are you getting so flustered?” 

“ _ I’m not! _ ” Jounouchi’s face had turned pink. He stamped his foot. “I swear, you’re the worst!” 

Across the street, Seto’s car pulled into a parking spot. “Would I be the worst if I offered you a ride home? My driver’s here.” 

Jounouchi dropped his anger. “Hey, no — you don’t have to do that. My station is only about a block from here.” 

“I don’t mind one extra stop, Jounouchi. I'm sure you don’t live that far away.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” He lifted his arms, put them behind his head. “To tell you the truth, I really like the walk back this time of night. It helps me clear my head.” 

“Fine. I’ll see you later.” 

Seto pressed the button to cross the street. 

“Wait — ” Jounouchi swept back his blond hair, smile crooked. At some point during the walk back, he had unzipped his jacket, revealing his white T-shirt underneath. This too was a pose suitable for a poster. Taken out of context, he could be struggling with a confession. “Um…” 

“Spill it.” 

“I know. I’m just trying to say this in a way that won’t make you hate me. I guess — ” Jounouchi lifted his head, fixed his lips. “I think you’ve changed for the better.” 

“How so?” 

The crosswalk sign blinked green but Seto stayed. 

“I don’t know. It was really nice seeing you have fun. I don’t think the Kaiba of five years ago would have pulled that stunt at dinner, or even gone with us at all. Oh man, I probably sound dumb — ” and there he went, modeling again, leaning against the streetlight, tucking his face into his sleeve. This would have been a candid photograph, something the cameraman had caught by accident but exploited nonetheless. His fans would find it on the internet, print it out on computer paper, thumb tack it on a wall,  _ he’s so cute when he’s vulnerable _ — then talk about what a good boyfriend he would make.

“You don’t sound dumb.” 

Jounouchi looked up. “See — that’s what I mean. You’d normally say something like, ‘ _ no dumber than usual. _ ’” He imitated Seto’s voice. 

“Do you want me to?” 

“No.  _ Please _ . I’m just saying it’s nice.” 

The crosswalk turned red and Seto pressed the button again. 

“Yugi always said you would come around, and I never believed him. But then you texted out of the blue and...I guess I’m just hoping you won’t go disappearing again.”

The cars waiting on the other side of the light slowly progressed into the street. It was that time of night — people returning home from late dinners, reluctantly heading into Monday. Nothing urgent. 

“You’ve changed for the better too, Jounouchi.” Seto said. “Success suits you. But you’re right. I wouldn’t have considered that before.” The last few cars passed through the light. “If I intend on disappearing, I’ll try to let you know.” 

The walk sign turned green. Seto lingered. 

“Cross the street, go home,” Jounouchi told him. “I’ll talk to you later.” 

“Bye.”

Both Jounouchi and Seto began in opposite directions, but turned to check on each other. Jounouchi waved a final time before disappearing behind a building. 

Before reaching his car, Seto unzipped his jacket. The cool, end-of-winter night left him feeling warm. 


	7. Chapter 7

Seto sat before his lunch — the usual melange of vegetables—leaning back in his chair. He had beaten them across the plate, bruised green beans and fork-wounded mushrooms. 

He had suffered another night of bad dreams, where the monsters tore him in half. But why? It had been such a long time. They came back especially cruel, wearing his stepfather’s face. They shoved espresso-flavored medicine down his throat to make him regenerate his limbs. That was the game. Use their claws, saws, pincers to claim his fingers, toes, arms up to the elbows, then up to the shoulders. His stomach. His chest. Until he was a head and neck on a surgical table. Force him to grow his body back, which was also excruciating.  _ This won’t do. Not good enough. Start over. _ Piece him out again until his alarm clock interrupted, indifferently.  _ I need him now. It’s my turn.  _

That dream in particular was never as bloody as he expected. Perhaps he spared himself that one detail. It would have been too much otherwise, and he would wake up. So his arms and legs snapped off like the parts of a mannequin,  _ pop _ , but it didn’t stop the monsters from having every pore in common with his step father. The mustaches above their fangs, mandibles, whatever, matched his perfectly, down to individual salt and pepper hairs. Their nostrils flared the same way.  _ Not good enough. Not good enough. How  _ dare _ you fall asleep at your desk.  _

Seto pushed the vegetables around his plate again, leaving them with more stab wounds. Then he touched his phone, the contact list, considering Yugi. 

Days ago, he called Industrial Illusions and asked them to print another Blue Eyes White Dragon card, just one more, please. As Seto Kaiba, he could do such a thing, and as Seto Kaiba, he could also say, “I’ll pay whatever you want.” They indulged him, and the card had arrived that morning. 

It was so fresh — sharp-cornered, sharp-toothed, fearsome under a fresh coat of gloss. Its blue eyes were vibrant, so beautiful that Seto felt a pang of guilt in finger-printing even its upper edge to place it in a card protector. He then turned it over, uncapped a calligraphy pen. He had brought others, in case he botched the kanji — left them with too long of tails or too wide of mouths, but he had also practiced. His caffeine-shaken hand approached with confidence. He wrote,  _ Many Years too Late _ , stuck the landing, and let it dry. 

Seto faced it one last time before placing it into the envelope, intended for a funeral by the knots of its white and black ribbons.  _ Yes _ , he verified,  _ it was perfect _ , before sealing it away. He had hired someone to deliver it to Yugi at exactly two o’ clock. It was currently a few minutes after noon. 

Seto selected Yugi’s name and called him. The phone rang twice before he picked up. 

“You’ve reached Kame Game Shop. This is Mutou Yugi. How can I help you?” 

“Yugi,” Seto said. His name came out weighing heavier than intended. 

“Oh, hey, Kaiba.” Yugi paused. “I wasn’t expecting you to call.” 

“Is now a good time?”

“Yeah, actually. Business doesn’t pick up until school lets out and I was just taking a break from restocking the shelves. Did you need anything?” 

“No,” Kaiba glanced from his office window. The sky was pristine and extremely blue. “I just realized that when we had dinner on Sunday, I never asked how you were.” 

“Oh, I didn’t even notice if you hadn’t, but thanks for asking — ” and Yugi told him. The game shop, the duelists he was coaching — some whose names Seto recognized, his grandfather. Seto listened so intently Yugi had to ask if he was still there. 

“I’m here. Keep talking.”

Yugi mentioned a few other things and was polite enough to ask Seto how he had been since Sunday. 


	8. Chapter 8

It was a few days later when Jounouchi called during lunchtime, when he knew Seto would be free. He had admitted to paying attention to when Seto returned his texts, early morning, noon, and late evening. “You work like a clock,” he said, then changed topics before Seto could dwell. 

“Hello?” 

“Kaiba — ” Jounouchi’s voice was strained. He made what sounded like a sniffle. “I just talked to Yugi. I always knew you were good.” 

“Are you crying?” 

“No — ” Jounouchi blew his nose, got himself together. Then there was the distinctive sound of chewing. 

“Are you...eating?” 

“Yes — ” Another pause, the rustling of paper, which Seto imagined to be several snotty fast food napkins. “Are you?” 

“I was.” 

“What was your lunch?” He still sounded on the verge of tears. 

“Uh — ” Seto glanced at the remnants of the  _ tonkatsu _ sandwich left upon the porcelain plate at the corner of his desk. He had made the driver stop at a convenience store that morning and bought two of them, having left only a scrap of white bread and a dab of barbeque sauce. “I had chicken cordon bleu with a side of foie gras and crackers. What are you eating?” 

Jounouchi sniffed. “Curry.” 

“You can’t have curry everyday, Jounouchi.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Uh-huh,” Seto said as his secretary came in to take the plate. “Is this what you called to talk about?” 

“No, I just wanted to tell you I’m proud of you.” The crinkling again. “I know you’re probably busy. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” 

“Alright. Goodbye.” 

Jounouchi hung up and left Seto in the quiet of his office. The sky that day was also clear. 

***

Friday arrived with a pastel yellow letter from Yugi. It was so cute compared to the rest of the mail — official envelopes with Seto Kaiba’s name printed inside their no-nonsense plastic windows. Yugi had written his address by hand and sealed the letter with a Kuribo sticker. It appeared like a singular fun polkadot amongst a background of manila and off-white. 

Seto hesitated to tear the sticker in half with his thumb, so he set it inside his desk, atop Mokuba’s acceptance letter. It was nearing seven, and he could hear Mokuba in the kitchen taking out the pots and pans, rummaging around in the spice cabinet. Seto had promised chicken alfredo and Mokuba had promised to help. 

When Seto arrived, Mokuba had already begun frying the chicken in too much oil, having punctured it several times with the meat thermometer even though it was nowhere near ready. The noodles were on too early and Mokuba greeted Seto with his hands on his hips. “Hey, I was just about to start the sauce.” 

“I’ll help you,” Seto said, putting the milk and cheese back in the fridge. He didn’t bother explaining that they should be as cold as possible. 

Half an hour later and dinner was ready. Seto and Mokuba took their places at the table, bowls overfilled with playful bowtie noodles swimming in alfredo. Some of the oil from the chicken floated atop the sauce; Seto hadn’t had the chance to pat enough of it dry before Mokuba cheerfully introduced it. 

“How is it?” Mokuba asked as Seto took his first bite. 

“It’s good.” Due to its richness, he was certain he would only be able to get through half. He loaded his fork again. 

“I know, yours is better. I tried to follow the recipe exactly, but I guess I missed something.” 

“You didn’t. Cooking is very exact. You have to make the same dish over and over again before it can be perfect. Considering this is your first time, you did well.” 

“Ah — thank you.” 

They ate in relative silence over short conversations of how each other’s days went. Do you have to study this weekend? Do you have to work? For the first time in a while, Seto refilled his glass of wine and made it through more than half his bowl by a few bowties and a single piece of chicken. He lingered, leaving the cloth napkin pressed against his lips. 

“Is there something on your mind?” Mokuba finally asked. His expression suggested he already knew the answer. 

“I was thinking about inviting Jounouchi to dinner one night next week.” The confession.

“Oh,” Mokuba patted his mouth with his napkin. “That sounds nice, but why the sudden change? I don’t think you’ve ever invited anyone for dinner before.” 

“All he eats is curry. I’m waiting for the day he calls me from the hospital and says all his bones simultaneously snapped from malnutrition.” 

Mokuba laughed, “I see,” and took his plate to the sink. “If you’re going to worry about Jounouchi now, does that mean I’m off the hook?” 

“ _ No _ , you’re not  _ off the hook _ ,” Seto stood, “and I’m not worried about him. He just needs to be introduced to new things.” 

“ _ Okay _ ,” Mokuba said. He was preparing to exit, trying not to smile. “Don‘t try telling him that. He probably won’t believe you.” Before Seto could reply, Mokuba was off, saying that he was going to fit in one more study session before bed, though some part of that was sure to involve mobile gaming and texting Tsukiko. 

*** 

That night, Seto had made something of a cocoon of his sheets, illuminating his face by the light of his phone. He had written out the same message a few times, deleting words, rephrasing. Finally, he came up with: 

_ Will you come to dinner at my house this week? I have Wednesday evening open, if that works for you. _

Checking it over one last time, he goaded himself into sending it. He took his head out from under the blanket, put his phone on his pillow. The air was cool but the bed was warm and Seto peeled back its lip. The phone vibrated next to his ear. Jounouchi had replied. 

_ Awful nice of u to invite me _ , then another text:  _ whats the occasion _

_ I want to witness you eating a vegetable _ . 

_ I can send a video _ , Jounouchi included a confusing string of emojis —a  corncob, a carrot, an eggplant.

_ Too easy to fake. Are you coming or not? _

Seto checked for Jounouchi’s reply every few seconds. It arrived minutes later. 

_ sure what time _

_ 7:30. I’ll send my driver to come and get you.  _

Jounouchi was slow to answer again. Seto imagined him preparing for bed, brushing his teeth, plugging his phone into its charger next to his futon, settling in beneath an old blanket. It was nearing eleven. 

_ u dont have to _

_ It’s a long walk from the station to my house. You’ll have a better time if you accept the ride _ . 

_ OK _ , Jounouchi texted.  _ Good night rich boy. Looking forward to seeing your bougie house _

_ Goodnight _ . Seto put his phone down, negotiated with the sheets, and went to sleep. 

***

In the days leading up to Wednesday, Seto tasked himself with preparing the perfect meal —his favorite, filet mignon with a side of fresh asparagus, whose cooking methods he researched between phone calls at work. He minimized tantalizing photos of tender beef, or the slender forms of fresh asparagus slick with butter. He wrote down measurements and a list. 

On Tuesday night, Seto went to the store, something he normally tasked someone else. He had seen his assistant exactly once, when he had hired her—a short, middle-aged woman who had come wearing both a suit and her hair tied up in a baseball cap. He kept her because she excelled at entering the house unnoticed, a reverse thief, filling the pantries with exactly the same order every week and leaving his credit card on the counter, wrapped in the receipt. 

This time, Seto would select the ingredients himself, and made the long journey to Alderman's —a luxury grocery store at the edge of the mountain where Domino ended and the forest began. Wealthy parents would bring their immaculately dressed children there in fall to pick blueberries. They employed a wine connoisseur with whom Seto had once had an argument in French. It was  _ that _ kind of grocery store. 

_ Bougie... _

That day, Alderman’s resided within a light layer of fog, through which its neon cursive letters were the most visible aspect. Seto left his car wishing he had brought a katana, as if he were a folk hero about to be abducted by oni. 

“I’ll be right back,” he told his driver, and entered the store.

To someone less disciplined, Alderman’s was a treasure trove meant to ensnare its customers forever. These included a produce aisle full of the most aesthetically pleasing fruits and vegetables, grown in a garden without sin, and therefore blemishless. There was the coffee section, whose immaculate beans could be smelled throughout the entire store. They were kept in large glass cases and gathered from every corner of the world— Ethiopia, Guatemala, the middle altitude of Mount Vesuvius, the secret groves of Mount Everest, the underground coffee mines of Hawaii. The meat section, whose cows were massaged daily before becoming premium cuts of beef. The filet mignon Seto planned to buy wouldn’t be French, but there was a high possibility that the cow had worn a beret for posterity. The wine section, with its infinite number of dense glass bottles, including their certifications, degrees, job applications, CVs. They presented themselves between soft blush to the richest shade of lipstick, orating why they belonged in your mouth. 

Seto exchanged a glare with the connoisseur before entering the produce section to find its spring green asparagus. 

***

Wednesday night and Seto had come home early to prepare dinner. He secured the bands of his apron, juiced his lemons, bound the filet mignon with marbled slices of bacon and string. 

Mokuba stood by to help, but Seto had become fixated and forgot to ask. Instead, as Seto arranged the filet mignon on the oven tray, Mokuba rose the still-packaged asparagus to his face, signaling with its plastic sheen.

“What?” Seto asked, and began digging for a pot to boil water in. “If you’re trying to tell me something, you should just say it.” 

“Are you  _ sure _ you don’t care?” Mokuba continued holding up the asparagus, like a holy book to be sworn to. “You went to  _ Alderman’s. _ ” 

Seto stopped. The kitchen became silent without its pots clattering. “It would be a disgrace to invite someone over and not serve them the best, Mokuba. If I’m going to present my food, it’s going to be  _ perfect _ .”

“ _ So you  _ do _ care? _ ” 

“...No.” 

Mokuba lowered the asparagus and Seto continued rummaging for the correct pot. Jounouchi would arrive within the next half hour, according to the text from his driver, and the food would be on the table; Seto would make it so. 

***

Jounouchi's arrival was preceded by the closing of the car door and the opening of the mansion's. He had come wearing a metallic green shirt that he tucked into his dress pants, a size too big from the way it hung around his shoulders, but there was something bohemian about it — the first few buttons undone, paired with too much cologne. He had combed out his hair; he was trying.

The moment Jounouchi caught Seto, he was coming to hug him, taking off what must have been the nicest pair of shoes he owned — brown loafers whose laces he had knotted a little too tight. He nearly tripped getting them off.

Jounouchi popped Seto’s back in a few places. "Hey man — " He seemed ready to lift him up. "Thanks for having me over!"

Seto sighed as much as he could with collapsed lungs. "You're welcome."

"You got an amazing place here," Jounouchi let him go. "I was a little worried when we were pulling up. I thought, there's no way he's  _ not  _ lost in there, but you did the smart thing by staying in one spot and waiting for me to find you."

"You should know I'm very familiar with this part of the house," Seto began up the stairs. He waited for Jounouchi to follow. "The danger comes later when I take you on a tour and you have to find your way back yourself."

"I better steal some rolls then, so I can leave myself a trail of breadcrumbs."

"I don't have any."

"Damn — " Jounouchi snapped his fingers. "I should have known this was a scheme to trap me here forever. There's no way you would be nice enough to make me dinner.  _ Unless _ — "

Seto turned around. "If you're referring to Keto, he's dead. I took him on the house tour a week ago and I haven't heard from him since."

"Well, if there's anything that boy needed, it was definitely some rolls."

"Like yours?" Seto turned around to pinch Jounouchi's stomach, but he leapt back and landed two steps away. 

"Not a second time,  _ Rich Boy _ . We can't all afford personal trainers and private chefs — "

"I have neither." They had reached the second floor. "I prepared tonight's dinner myself, so you better appreciate it. Or else I'll take you on the house tour of your life."

"Oh — " Before Jounouchi could properly respond, Mokuba was coming to hug the kinks out of his spine. Seto went to the kitchen to start plating. 

***

Upon sitting Jounouchi at the table, Seto offered him wine. He had caved at Alderman’s, and unsure of what Jounouchi would like, he chose a bottle of champagne, a tropical moscato, and a dolce red. They were presented with their labels facing toward him, but Jounouchi refused all three, saying he preferred water. When Mokuba volunteered to try the moscato, Seto popped it and choked out exactly five droplets into the glass meant for Jounouchi. 

Then dinner was served. The filet mignon came out just as planned. Medium rare and tender, oozing juice if prodded with a fork. The bacon around it was crisp and the asparagus firm. 

It was clearly Jounouchi's first time. He cut too big of pieces with too little bacon, his first bite uneven, but he still tilted his head back. "Mmm..." He copied Seto's European fork posture, the convex side outward, cut more carefully with the knife, ate ravenously. "Kaiba," he managed between bites. " _ This is so good _ — what's it called again?"

" _ Filet mignon _ ."

Jounouchi sampled those words in Seto's French accent, waving his fork as if conducting. Of course it didn't sound right. It never would. "Do you guys eat this good every night?"

Mokuba was about to answer, but Seto beat him to it. "Yes." 

Jounouchi lifted his napkin, dangling it elegantly before him. He had arranged the silver K to face Seto. "You know, the K can stand for Katsuya too."

"Congratulations," Seto said over Mokuba's stifled laughter.

Jounouchi finished both his filet mignon and asparagus, and because he had said nice things about both, Seto allowed him seconds. He repeated the same process — not quite cutting the right sized bites, expressing his approval between bouts of conversation.

When all three had finished, Mokuba took their plates to the sink. "I have to study," he said. "but it was nice having you over for dinner, Jounouchi. I hope Seto lets you come back."

"If it's always this good, I hope he does too."

Mokuba stood in the doorway a moment before finally disappearing into the hallway. The kitchen became quiet between only Seto and Jounouchi exhaling wistfully and feeling full.

Seto abducted Jounouchi's empty water glass and took it to the fridge. "Are you sure you don't want any wine?"

"Yeah. I don't drink anymore.” He watched as Seto filled his glass with mineral water. 

“Anymore?” Seto brought it back, so cold it was opaque. 

Jounouchi touched its stem, looked at Seto apologetically. 

“You don’t owe me an explanation — ” 

“It’s okay. It was just —I was turning into my dad, is all. You know you should probably stop when you’re waking up on a park bench and you can’t remember how you got there. With your wallet empty and your house keys gone...” Jounouchi took a drink of water. “I don’t miss those days, and I’m not going back.” 

“That’s noble of you, Jounouchi.” 

“Nah. I’m doing what needs to be done. I’m more jealous of people like you.”  Jounouchi propped himself up on his elbow. The mellow kitchen lights amplified the honey of his brown eyes. “You’re always in control.” 

Seto poured a measured amount of wine into his glass, red as a blood oath. "I have my moments."

"Oh yeah, like when?"

"What? Are you trying to get me to open up?"

“Well...I told you my embarrassing thing, and it would definitely make me feel better if you told me one of your embarrassing things, but — ” He set a few fingers against his chin. “You’re Kaiba Seto. I would be surprised if you had anything that juicy anyway.” 

“Is that a challenge?” 

Jounouchi laughed. “Not really. I’m just saying I’d listen if you had something to tell me.” 

Seto’s glass scraped gently against the table top as he rotated it. “It’s true I don’t have a lot of embarrassing things,” he stopped, “but I’ll tell you this.” 

Jounouchi leaned forward. They were set beneath the same amber light, knees almost touching under the table. 

"When I bought this house," Seto started, "I tore down Gozaburo's old mansion. Mokuba and I watched as they dismantled it, wall by wall. I even had them rip out the ugly front garden, until all that was left was its green field with a big brown rectangle in the center. We stopped there, but sometimes I wish I would have set fire to that too, so I wouldn't even be left with the ground he walked on." Seto took a drink. The wine's dryness made him cringe. "He comes out of me sometimes, when I haven't thought of him in ages. I don't know why."

"I mean. He left you with scars, didn't he?"

Seto leaned back, out of the light.

“I noticed at the pool." 

"They've faded quite a bit by now. How close were you looking?"

" _ Hey _ , we were standing  _ right _ next to each other, and I'm sure you saw mine too. I'm just trying to say that I get it." Jounouchi brushed the hair from his eyes, invited Seto back in. "I still dream I'm back at my dad’s apartment sometimes, dodging beer bottles. It's like a videogame — I've gotten so good at those first few levels. I know just what's coming. Then — every time — _ wham _ , right in the back of the head." Jounouchi touched his crown, pinpointing the spot. "And you're right. It's always when I haven't thought about him for a while. They won't let us forget, will they?"

Seto remained quiet, interlocking his fingers.

Jounouchi patted his hand. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make things depressing. Anyway, I'm sure you're nothing like that bastard. You're good now, remember? We had a whole embarrassing phone call about it." He stood up, stretched, walked to the sink. "Since you fed me I'm going to help with the dishes."

"Jounouchi, you don't need to do that."

"I know, but — "

"No, really. We have housekeepers."

"Of course you do, but just let me do this for you."

Seto didn’t fight. Instead, he stood by as Jounouchi filled the sink with hot water and lime-scented dish soap, rolling up his sleeves. He washed especially carefully, perhaps because he was a guest, or that even one of the forks likely cost a month’s pay — genuine silver with a tiny  _ fleur de lys _ etched into the handle. Either way, it caused him to inspect the pans and plates by holding them up to the lights, tongue sticking out, dripping water on himself. It appeared in fat droplets across his shirt. Jounouchi wasn’t bothered. 

Seto helped by taking the pans, the dishes, the forks and knives, and drying them off and putting them away. Jounouchi thanked him after each one to the point that Seto began saying it with him, which turned into Jounouchi opening his mouth for the ‘ah’ in  _ arigatou _ and Seto having to decide whether the rest would follow. 

When the dishes were finally put away, the oven informed them in electric blue that it was nearly nine o’ clock. 

“Kaiba — ” 

“You have to go. I’ll text my driver.” He started a message. “Thanks for — ”

“Thanks.” 

Seto nearly tossed his phone. Jounouchi was bubbling with laughter. 

“ _ It was  _ so _ nice of you _ to help with the dishes.” 

“Oh yeah, anytime. It’s the least I can do to thank you — ”

“Thanks.” 

“ _ Damnit. _ ” Jounouchi leaned back against the fridge, hand through his hair. Modeling again. “ _ I appreciate _ you taking the time to make dinner. Seriously. It was delicious.” 

“It was nothing.” 

“Don’t say that. I’ll have to repay you somehow. That’s two dinners I owe you for.” 

A text came in. “Your ride is out front.” 

“Already? How does the time pass so quickly?” Jounouchi pulled himself from the fridge, hands in his pockets. He had yet to roll down his sleeves. “Well, we’ll have to talk about it later.” 

Seto walked him out to the car, whose driver stood beside it. The air was cool and Jounouchi shivered in his dampened shirt, yet he waited to climb inside. The car’s bright interior lights illuminated the path between them. “Hey — ” Jounouchi said. “I forgot to mention — ” 

The driver stood by, unmoving in holding open the door. A breeze blew through.

“I have another tournament game in about two weeks, and it’s the big one to determine who will go on to the finals. They always give me a few extra VIP tickets, and uh — it would mean a lot to me if you were there — that is, if it doesn’t interfere with your schedule or anything. I know you’re a busy guy — ” 

“I’ll be there,” Seto said. 

“But I didn’t tell you when it is.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m the president. I can leave the office whenever I please.” 

“Ah, thanks — ” Jounouchi took Seto into a hug, gently. “Man — I thought for sure you would get me for that one.” Seto felt him laugh. He gave a final squeeze, let go. “I’ll let you get some sleep now. I bet you got a busy day ahead. See you later.” 

“Thanks.” 

Jounouchi boarded. The car drove slowly away. 

***

Seto indulged in the quiet of his home post ten o’clock. Mokuba hadn’t come back out and Seto didn’t summon him, instead sitting in his office, addressing nothing in particular. 

Jounouchi had left an imprint of his cologne against Seto’s shirt collar. Their cheeks had brushed in coming apart. More than once, he lifted the fabric to his nose, finding an odd mixture of both their scents. It was something new and not entirely unpleasant, reminding Seto of Jounouchi’s arms around him. 

As a final matter of business, he took out Yugi’s letter. In the bright moonlight occupying the window, he opened it, carefully uprooting the Kuribo sticker, and read. At the same time, a text message arrived from Jounouchi, simply:  _ Thanks again _ , followed by a winking face with its tongue sticking out.


	9. Chapter 9

April struck, and blew the cool morning air out of the way for humidity and afternoon heat. The sakura trees both on Seto’s property and around Domino were in the process of blooming, their dark branches covered in pink buds, like small fists about to uncurl their fingers. 

Seto awoke most mornings with a thin film of sweat in the crooks of his knees and elbows.

April had also brought an email from the president of the manufacturing company — _ No really, what was his name again? _ It stated that the duel disks were ready, employing too many exclamation points. He included a series of similar-looking photographs, one of which featured him posing with it unfurling along his arm. He was dressed in a suit and tie, trying to look serious, about to play an index card he held in his other hand. It was the sort of pose a duelist would take for an advertisement, when their likeness would make it onto a glossy cardboard cut-out to be set in front of game shops. Were it not for his suit and his smirk, which he was trying to snuff out, it may have been convincing.

Seto told him to bring two of them, and they met at the Kaiba Corp building.

The president seemed slightly more comfortable that time, despite frequently dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Where is the artist?" Seto asked him as he placed the two boxes on the desk, presenting them as though tasked with bringing the sword and mirror to the emperor. He arranged them both equidistant from each other, corners parallel.

He mopped his brow before answering. "We didn't believe her presence would be necessary, Kaiba- _ shachou _ ."

"That's a shame," Seto opened one of the boxes. "I thought she would have been excited to present them, given they were her designs."

"My deepest apologies." He bowed, bending over his knees as Seto removed the duel disk.

It looked like an enlarged wrist watch, circular with its cardport in the center. As promised, it was light and comfortable with its unobtrusive velcro straps. Seto pressed the button to activate it, side popping open and outstretching its wing of translucent panels, veins glowing blue. "Wow," he turned it over, inspected its connective tissue. "I can see why this took longer than expected."

"I'm so glad to hear you say that, sir."

Seto put down the duel disk and dug through his briefcase, pulling out a small black bag — his tools for just such an occasion. They met the desk with an ominous metallic thunk. Seto unzipped it, pulled out his smallest screwdriver, whose tip closely resembled the point of a stiletto.

"I have to thank you in advance," He said, searching for another instrument. "I can tell your company took time in creating these, but I still need to understand exactly how you put them together. I'll contact you with any changes I'd like to make and then we can start production."

"Yes, sir. Thank you for this meeting today," he bowed and showed himself to the door. Like the last time, he nearly ran into the secretary as she entered carrying bottles of tea.

"Keiko — " Seto liberated several tiny silver screws. "You're late.  _ Again _ ." 

"I'm sorry, sir. You're too efficient.”

"That's extremely true, but what will people think?" Seto pointed to her with the point of his screwdriver. "That we don't have a single drop of tea in this skyscraper, from the parking garage to my office? Unacceptable. From now on I want you to issue a bottle of tea to anyone who has an appointment with me as soon as they arrive,  _ even if they refuse three times _ , and make sure you have an array of flavors. It looks cheap if we only have green."

"Yes, sir," Keiko said, turning to leave.

"You can bring those here. Someone has to drink them."

Keiko brought the tea to the corner of Seto's desk as he uprooted more screws.

***

Seto continued deconstructing the duel disk, stopping occasionally to address the incoming emails, or appointments in which business men would enter his office wielding obscure bottles of tea — chrysanthemum milk, rose lavender, dandelion. They sat across from him and tried to hide their puzzlement at the series of technical doodads littering his desk, along with the single, disembodied dragon's wing. Seto hadn't bothered to brush them aside or put his tools away. He would keep working as soon as they left.

Just before Keiko went home that evening, Seto called her from his office phone. "I saw that all of our guests today had a bottle of tea. Good job, Keiko."

If Keiko were drinking something, she would have spat it out. "Th-thank you, sir."

Seto hung up and kept working under his bright office lights. He had put the duel disk back together differently than he had received it, typing up the notes he had made to the president. His computer informed him that it was 8:52.

Jounouchi sent a text.  _ can I call u  _

_ You don't normally ask. _

_ yeah but its late _

Seto minimized the email he was working on and called Jounouchi. He answered right away.

"Hello?"

"What do you want to talk about?"

There was a clipping — possibly tweezers, but scissors would have fit. "Well, you know how my duel is next Saturday? I was wondering if you'd want to come over for dinner afterward."

"Where?"

"Just my apartment. I can't cook as well as you can, but I figured we could get some takeout." 

Seto's chair popped as he leaned back. "Fine. I can have my driver take us there afterward."

"I don't know if you want to wait around for me — " That sound again. Seto imagined Jounouchi sitting against his bathtub, clipping his toenails. "They always want to take so many pictures."

"I don't mind waiting. I'm curious to see what life is like as a duelist nowadays."

"What, are you thinking of getting back into it?" Jounouchi laughed, trimmed another nail. "Well, I'm warning you, if you hang around me, they'll want pictures of you too."

"I'll be sure to wear something fashionable."

“Kaiba.” Where Seto expected another clip, there were none. "Everyone’s going to know that we're friends. Are you okay with that?"

"If I wasn't okay with it, I wouldn't go in the first place. See you Saturday."

"Alright.” The misplaced clip. “See you then."

***

Saturday morning, Seto stood in his closet. He was having a rare moment of indecision, trying to choose between his white and purple dueling jackets. He ran his fingers over their collars to the ends of their sleeves. The rustling of their fabrics was akin to a sigh,  _ Oh, Seto. It's been so long. _ To which he would reply,  _ I know. But I can only wear one of you. _

Both of them had held up. The white hadn't yellowed and the purple hadn't dulled. They still smelled of the soap from the last time he had laundered them, as if that too were a kept promise. They had held their breaths for him. Seto was sorry.

He chose the white one, going to the mirror. He appeared as he had years ago, but older, more storm-weathered and altered in some way. Seto nearly left. The outfit looked good, but his left arm felt naked. Leftover divots in the fabric begged for a duel disk, so he affixed his newest one, and that too longed for a deck, so he fastened it to his belt.  _ They would want pictures this way _ , he told himself and finally felt right leaving. 

Mokuba was leaning against the wall, texting. Seto's door had opened with such a dramatic gust that Mokuba had to look.

" _ Wow _ ," he lowered his phone. "I haven't seen that outfit in years. You look like you're about to duel."

"Does it hold up?"

"Of course it does. You look great in all your clothes."

Seto and Mokuba started toward the first floor. 

"You're tempting me to go put on a striped shirt for old time's sake." 

"You can change if you want to."

"No, we better go. I don't want to make us late."

They made it a few steps before Seto put his hand on the banister. The tail of his jacket had come to rest over the previous stairs, like the slow-flowing cape of a king. "Mokuba, I meant to tell you — "

Mokuba stopped. 

"Jounouchi invited me for dinner tonight. He didn’t mention whether or not I could bring anyone."

"Oh, that’s fine. Don't worry about me. I had plans to visit the gang anyway." Even though Mokuba turned back around, Seto could see that he was grinning.

They made their way to the garage.

***

Every damn car in Domino City had come out again to congest the roads to the Domino Bowl. Middle and high schoolers alike flooded the sidewalks, fresh from their Saturday classes. They allowed their uniforms to hang open to expose their T-shirts underneath — homemade merchandise in the form of shirts they had decorated with glitter, cute drawings of Jounouchi or his opponent Fukuda Himawari. They had recreated her bright red hair with permanent markers and drew her eye-liner extending past the borders of her face. 

Jounouchi had sent Seto a picture of her, brandishing a trophy. She smiled with a snaggle tooth, jean jacket covered in sunflower iron-ons. Her enormous false eyelashes made the cartoon versions only a slight exaggeration.  _ Shes pretty tough _ , Jounouchi had written.  _ She combines a lot of trap cards and doesnt rely on the same ones every time _ . 

_ Out trap her _ , Seto replied.  _ You’ve come this far _ . 

Jounouchi sent fire emojis and a series of exclamation points.  _ Damn right!! _

Seto pulled up her picture one last time as their car crawled through traffic, but the Domino Bowl was coming into sight. Its huge walls extended like a fortress, paneled seamlessly and solid black. Its lights and the stems of their necks transgressed the clouds. 

***

Upon arriving, Seto and Mokuba were ushered to their seats amongst whispers from the nerds who were too shy to approach. Phone cameras went off as they entered past two huge banners bearing Jounouchi and Himawari’s images. They were posing with their duel disks, looking tough and smiling big. 

The usher led them through the door beneath Jounouchi’s poster and into the stadium where his fans were already taking their seats. They had divided it between both duelists for aesthetic purposes, Seto was sure. 

The VIP seating on Jounouchi’s side was a small box separated by velvet rope with slightly nicer seats. Yugi and Shizuka had already arrived, sitting in the center. Mokuba greeted them as they marvelled at the miracle of his adulthood. Seto sat near the rope. Eventually, for the sake of being polite, he greeted them too. 

The stadium swarmed to full capacity, weaving a complex tapestry of Jounouchi and Himawari’s faces repeated over inexact lines. The VIP box on the other side held an older and younger woman with the same red hair — presumably her family. They too had dressed in sunflowers and had brought a huge cloth sign, unfurling it by pinching the corners. Unlike the others, this one was printed professionally, her name written in perfect calligraphy. 

The announcer stated that there were five more minutes before the match would begin. The chatter grew louder. 

Seto texted Jounouchi,  _ Tear her to shreds _ , as Mokuba finally took the seat next to him, patting him on the kneecap. “Thanks for bringing me,” he said. “It’s been too long since we’ve been to a proper duel.” 

“You should thank Jounouchi.” The timer projected on the enormous screens counted down. One minute. “He gave us these seats.” 

“I know, but I’m grateful to you too, for letting him back in.” Thirty seconds. “I’m proud of you.” 

“That’s supposed to be my line.” 

“Well, let’s just be proud of each other and cheer for Jounouchi.” 

“I’m not sure how much cheering I’ll do,” Seto said, “But I can be proud of all of us.” 

Zero. 

The large screen that held the ominous 0:00 went dark and the crowd grew silent. 

Without warning, Himawari took the field. Her fans washed out all other sounds, her laughter somehow cutting through it. She turned toward them, one hand over her heart, and waved to the entire stadium. “Thank you,” she said again and again. “Thank you so much — ” They were chanting her name. 

When the noise had finally died down, Himawari placed her hands on her hips, pretended to look around. “Hey, have any of you guys seen Jounouchi?” the audience answered with indistinct noise. Himawari checked her wrist, which held no watch, shrugging. “I thought for sure we were going to have a match today. Can you guys — can you guys check your tickets? We didn’t all get the wrong date, did we?” She pretended to wait, nodding when they hollered to her, various answers out of time. “Well, maybe he doesn’t know that he’s supposed to come out yet. Now I know there’s no way that his fans could make more noise than  _ mine _ — ” She laughed at the divided booing and cheering. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Come on guys, let’s be productive. I’m going to count down from three and I want everyone to make some noise for Jounouchi, okay? It’s Duel Monsters, so we have to summon him.” She rubbed her hands together. “ _ Ready? _ Three, two, one — ”

Everyone recited the classic chant:  _ Jou-nou-chi, Jou-nou-chi _ —

Mokuba elbowed Seto and pointed to the gate. Jounouchi had emerged, his fans so excited they couldn’t manage anything other than unarticulated enthusiasm. They waved their banners at him and he waved back with both arms. 

Seto’s heart manifested in his throat. 

“Wow — ” He took the field. “Himawari, who are all your friends? It was so nice of you to invite them here, and just for me!”  _ We love you, Jounouchi! _ Someone shouted. Jounouchi turned to her direction, put his hand on his cheek and whispered, “I love you too.” 

Himawari was trying not to laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Drink it up while you can, Jounouchi — ” She pointed at him, “because whether they know it or not, everyone in this stadium is here today to watch you lose!” 

“We’ll have to see about that.” Jounouchi pointed back. “Let’s just hope you’re as good at dueling as you are talking trash.” 

“Oh, don’t you worry. I’m excellent at both.” 

They walked to the center of the field to shuffle each other’s decks. Whoever was controlling their microphones had turned them off momentarily to avoid the sound clutter, but Jounouchi and Himawari used the opportunity to chat. They appeared on the large screen so casually, despite the thousands of people watching. They laughed, likely complimenting each other’s insults — _ talking trash, huh? _ Himawari punched him lightly on the arm. Then they returned their decks, shook hands firmly. 

_ Tear her to shreds _ , Seto thought, but it evaporated. 

*** 

Jounouchi and Himawari backed each other into corners and, by the breadth of a single card, escaped. Seto found himself leaning forward, heart racing whenever Jounouchi drew.  _ Could he get himself out of that pinch?  _ The answer was yes, and gracefully. He laughed with Himawari with his back against the wall — her knife, his throat. 

Then, Jounouchi won. Beneath the elated cries from his half of the stadium, he met Himawari in the center of the field. They embraced. The noise showered them like audible confetti. 

Their microphones were off again, but Seto watched. Himawari squeezed Jounouchi so hard, his duel disk threatened to pop off of his arm. She nearly picked him up, likely accompanied with commentary.  _ That was such a good tactic! _ Or,  _ I can’t believe you used that combination!  _

_ I’m proud of you.  _

Then the duel was over. Jounouchi and Himawari exited through the doors they came in and the crowd reacted slowly. There was still the chatter and the energy, but with both of them gone, it deflated. There was nothing more to do than leave. Their collective fans took their banners and signs, politely filing out. 

Shizuka and Mokuba stayed a little longer, until citing prior obligations. Yugi and Seto remained until the stadium had emptied entirely. 

“He’s improved a lot,” Seto said. 

“Yeah, he has.” Yugi got up to sit next to him, the seat squealing on its old hinges. “I used to train with him until something just seemed to click. Now he wins tournament games.” 

Across the stadium, the janitorial staff had entered and began picking up the trash with long metal pincers and flighty garbage bags. Two of them had begun to roll up Himawari’s poster —identical to the one outside. 

“Are you saying he’s beaten you?” 

“Yeah,” Yugi said. “A few times.” 

Her face disappeared into the roll and it was coming for the rest of her, a boa constrictor patiently swallowing its prey. 

“He told me that you guys are hanging out tonight.” 

“You’re not coming?” 

Yugi looked momentarily thrown. “Oh, no. I have some business I have to wrap up at the game shop, but I hope you have fun.” He stood. “Just to warn you, if you’re anywhere near him while he’s greeting his fans, they’re probably going to want pictures of you too. It can be a little overwhelming, so…” 

“He’s not obligated to meet with them, is he?” 

“No, but he feels bad leaving as soon as possible. They came all the way to see him, and it’s pretty customary these days to greet your fans post duel, I guess.”

“It seems like it’s changed a lot.” 

“Yeah, but not at all, right?” Yugi turned to watch the workers stuff Himawari’s legs into the roll. Two others had started on Jounouchi’s. “We definitely didn’t get huge posters of us, did we?” 

“We should have.” Seto said. 

“Well, maybe we can have a rematch sometime, as friends.” 

Seto crossed his arms. “Yeah. Maybe.” 

“You’ll have to watch out,” Yugi began walking away. “You’re not the only player with a Blue Eyes White Dragon anymore.” 

“Don’t remind me.” 

They said their goodbyes and Seto remained minutes longer, absorbing the vastness of the stadium and the fact that it had been entirely full. 

***

Seto found Jounouchi and his hoard of fans (mostly young ladies) along the path leading into the stadium. They had politely lined up, having come with blank T-shirts, autograph templates, trading cards, some with bulky boxes housing fresh duel disks. People would ask their favorite duelist to sign them — the most valuable of which being a virginal duel disk, yet to have brought a single monster to fruition, signed by the King of Games himself. They would pay hundreds of thousands of yen for such an article, blessed by his hands.  _ Mutou Yugi has imbued this duel disk with his incredible skill, and therefore, I  _ will  _ win this card game _ . 

Perhaps they had come for the luck of Jounouchi, or now, the determination of Kaiba Seto. Or the wrath. 

Most of them turned to watch him as he strutted past. He silenced them with his presence, the snow white of his coat tails, his long stride.  _ Was it really? _

_ Oh, honey. You better believe it _ . 

Seto snuck past Jounouchi and leaned against the back wall as he was taking a photo with two girls and their mother. They posed with peace signs, clinging onto Jounouchi’s blue jean jacket as the camera flashed. They were elated to be close, and thanked him profusely in walking away. The girls looked back. A lot of his fans probably did. 

Jounouchi greeted Seto with a short but intense hug, a thank you, and a debriefing. “You can use my markers if you want to sign autographs, and they’ll love it if you take pictures with them, but sometimes they get a little handsy, just to warn you.” 

“They seem more excited to see you anyway.” 

Jounouchi left him and made an announcement. “Hey guys, Kaiba is here to sign autographs too, and if you ask  _ real  _ nicely, he might even let you take a picture!” 

Seto inflated with a sigh, but as he had learned from Mokuba, let it drain from his nose. They were already whispering to one another, already gathering the courage to ask for a photo, so Seto took the extra chair Jounouchi must have left for him and wielded the blue marker. The next family in line arrived, called him “Kaiba- _ sama _ ,” and requested his autograph. He signed, told the girls to stay in school. 

Several parents approached the table, light wrinkles and prescription glasses, carting along their children. “You were always one of my favorites,” the mothers told him, asking bashfully for a photograph. If they touched him at all, it was gently, respectfully; he was royalty, a holy relic. Unlike Jounouchi, who granted both his arms, gave them everything, let them drink his sunshine. That was what they came for. 

***

Once all the signing, photographing, poking and prodding had been done, Seto and Jounouchi walked to the car. The driver held the door open as Jounouchi boarded first, crashing into his seat like a duffel bag of bricks. He sighed loudly, leaned his head against the air conditioned window, fogging up the glass. It was nearing six o’clock, and he admitted to arriving at the stadium at ten in the morning. 

“Thanks for the ride.” In his reflection, Jounouchi had closed his eyes, “and for tolerating that.” 

They were pulling out of the parking lot. 

“I hope I didn’t steal your spotlight.” 

“No, man. Not at all. It was nice having you with me. I gotta say though, I’m surprised you put up with it.” 

“It’s not like you left me much choice.” 

“Heh — sorry. I figured if you really didn’t want to, you’d say so. You know, fend them off with your briefcase, tell them to go away. ‘ _ You can’t afford to touch me!’ _ or something.” 

“I’m not going to tell your fans off. They love you. I have no right to ruin that.” 

“You really are good.” Jounouchi leaned his head against the window again. It met the glass with a soft  _ thunk _ . “Ah! I’m so glad I won! I was stressing about this for days.” 

“You’ve become a formidable duelist, Jounouchi.” 

They entered the city, where the Saturday crowds passed along the sidewalk. They were fresh from work in their business attire, or dressed casually, maybe sparkling in sequins and towering heels. They were going in and out of convenience stores, buying drinks to smuggle into karaoke rooms, laughing loud. 

Seto watched Jounouchi in the glass. “Yugi told me you’ve managed to beat him.” 

“He told you that?” 

“Is it true?” 

“I mean, yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck. “But he’s nice enough not to mention that I just got lucky. Don’t take it seriously.” 

“You need a lot more than luck to beat Yugi.” 

They moved slowly through traffic. 

Jounouchi laughed a little, without commitment. “Oh, man. I must be tired if I’m hallucinating this much. Kaiba’s giving me a ride home,  _ and _ he’s saying nice things?  _ About my dueling? _ I’m going to be real disappointed if I wake up and find out this is a dream and I didn’t actually win.” 

“No, you won. I know you’re not used to it, but I’m good now,”  _ or at least I’m trying to be _ , he almost added. “We had an embarrassing phone call about it, remember?” 

“ _ We sure did _ .” Jounouchi’s forehead slid further down the window, causing the glass to squeal and his bangs to tangle. He did nothing to fix them. “Hey, do you mind if I conk out for a little? I don’t want to be this exhausted over dinner.” 

“Go ahead,” Seto said. He reached for the control panel between them. “I’ll adjust your seat.” 

“That would be great.” 

Seto pushed Jounouchi’s seat back as far as it would go, whirring and then stopping with a click. He thanked Seto, settled in. It wasn’t long before the drive put him to sleep, the car being incredibly smooth. They weren’t moving quickly anyway. 

Seto watched Jounouchi’s face as the city lights swept over it. His long lashes cast a soft shadow over his cheeks, his lips slightly agape. Seto waited for the moment a wide turn would wake him, or maybe he would feel him staring. Instead, Jounouchi only mumbled, sweet sounds in the back of his throat. 

*** 

When they arrived, Seto shook Jounouchi’s shoulder to wake him. He yawned, stretched, casually cracking every joint in his body. “Are we here?” he asked as the driver had come to open his door. 

“Yes,” Seto answered. 

The walk leading to the apartment was adorned with a polka-dotting of bushes and the occasional tree. They were as uniform as the apartments themselves — solid red doors against a steely grey building. In an attempt to be modern, each apartment had a large, round window, causing the exterior to look like a cheese grater. Somewhere, someone was cooking meat. 

“So,” Jounouchi said, fumbling with his keys. “It’s small, but I hope you like it. I tried to tidy up.” 

“I’m sure it’s fine.” 

Jounouchi arrived at one of the units on the first floor and allowed the door to open slowly. “ _ Tadaima _ ,” he said for no one’s benefit, removed his shoes, and began turning on lights. They illuminated with some hesitation, as if they weren’t expecting anyone back so soon. Their fluorescent bulbs flickered in morse code,  _ the landlord is a cheapskate _ . 

Seto joined Jounouchi in the kitchen. 

“I’d give you the tour, but you’re looking at it.” He pointed to two doors on the right wall. “That one’s the bathroom, that one’s the shower, this is the kitchen, and this is my bedroom.” He opened one side of the sliding paper doors, exposing a six tatami mat room with a short table in the center and a small TV balanced haphazardly atop the dresser. The closet pinched the corner of his comforter in its teeth, implying that was where he had shoved his futon, along with anything else Jounouchi didn’t want him to see. Seto imagined the walls threatening to burst open with things — plastic bottles yet to be thrown away, maybe a game console or two, dirty magazines. The trophies he had won. 

“Let me turn on the air conditioner — ”

As Jounouchi’s entire bedroom rattled as it turned on, he sat Seto at the table, so small his legs barely fit under it. He then ran off to get them a few bottles of tea, along with the take-out menus he had saved. “What are you in the mood for?” He called from the kitchen. “I have Indian, Thai — ”

“If this was an elaborate ruse to get me to eat curry,” Seto said, “it’s not going to work.” 

“What do you have against curry, man? It’s good for your soul.” There was the sliding open of drawers. “You know what, I’ll just bring you all the menus I have and you can pick — ”

Over the kitchen drawer abuse and papers fluttering, Seto observed Jounouchi’s posters. Most of them were advertisements from tournaments he had participated in — no doubt pilfered from unattended city walls as evidenced by their tears and clear tape. Some even announced Jounouchi as a contestant. That happened when you were a big deal; you were  _ featured _ . 

Amongst the collage, one in the corner caught Seto’s eye —a Battle City poster from which all the others expanded, its glossy face fingerprinted and slightly faded. How long had it been? A decade?  _ More? _ The Egyptian Gods were still clear — Ra, Osiris, Obilyx, judging him on the floor of Jounouchi’s apartment as the beleaguered air conditioner tried to cool them down. Seto still felt warm. For the first time that day, his overcoat weighed heavy. He saw the Gods as they were, unchanging, and they saw him as he was — different, but somehow the same. Still dressed in white. 

Something stirred in his stomach — his old ambition, so sharp it hurt to hold, always threatening to slice him into pieces. He was its vessel and it drove him from cliffs, dangled him out of helicopters, forced him to win. Recalling that time, Seto felt sick. The Gods kept their eyes on him.  _ Where have you been? What have you learned? How have you changed?  _

_ I don’t know,  _ Seto wanted to answer _ , but I hope I’ve changed. I hope I’ve learned. _

He adjusted his coat and stood within the doorway.  Although he barely made a sound, Jounouchi stopped digging through the drawers. His arms were full of filmy take-out menus he set down next to two sweating bottles of tea. 

“You want to duel, don’t you?” 

Seto’s heart was catching fire. 

“I knew it from the moment I saw you. You’ve been trying to keep it down all day, but you can’t hide it in your eyes, Kaiba. I know that look.” 

Jounouchi was grinning and so was Seto. 

“You showed me something that I want to understand. The fact that you can duel without hating your opponent, that you don’t have to tear them apart. That you’ve always played because you love it. That purity — ” Seto opened his duel disk. The dragon’s wing outstretched. “I stopped because I could never duel casually. It was tearing me in three directions, and I chose two — Mokuba and Kaiba Corporation. But maybe that wasn’t the only answer. Maybe I can enjoy playing for the sake of it. Like you.” Seto loaded his deck. “I know you’re tired, Jounouchi, but I want to understand that purity. Show it to me.” 

“Is that the new duel disk?” Jounouchi leaned over his kitchen sink, laughing a little. “ _ It’s cute _ …” 

“You should appreciate it. It was made with love.”

“I do.” He turned toward Seto, crossed his arms. “I’ll duel you,” he started, “but this might be the day that I finally beat you, Kaiba. I need you to be okay with that. If you’re going to go back to hating me, I don’t want it to be over this.” 

“I won’t hate you,” Seto lowered his duel disk. “You’ve become an honorable duelist. Losing to you wouldn’t be too shameful.” 

Jounouchi was smiling. His heart had caught fire too and he held it open. “Come on. Let’s take this outside.” 

*** 

They went to the back of the apartment building, which had a large grass plot filled with more manicured bushes and a rationing of trees. The air was heavy with late spring humidity, furtive and electric. 

Seto and Jounouchi shuffled each other’s decks. It was part of the ritual.  _ You hold my soul; I’ll hold yours. Decide my fate _ . Then they took their places across the field. A few crickets were chirping. There was no breeze. 

Jounouchi called to him, “Just for fun!” 

“Just for fun,” Seto agreed, but there was something thumping in his throat. That drive to win, but not as desperate. 

Jounouchi and Seto led each other through a maze whose walls they drew in real time. They erected barriers to impede the other’s progress — a new tangle, a new dilemma. The game changed constantly. 

As usual, Jounouchi remained cool. He would even smile when Seto managed to chew a hole through his life points, compliment him. “I didn’t think you’d get out of that — ” only to inevitably turn it around, take back the upper hand. 

_ It’s fun to have a strong opponent _ , Jounouchi had said, years ago.

Seto concentrated. His heart skipped beats when he laid down card combinations, because there was the chance they wouldn't work, that Jounouchi had read him and prepared a counter attack. Oftentimes, he had. They were passing a bomb back and forth to see who would weather the explosion. Who would run out of solutions first? 

They cut each other down to the hundreds, ran out of dragons, magic, traps. Now it was Seto’s turn. He had no more monsters in his hand, none on the field. He had spent them all, even running out of cards to draw. 

But there was a magic card. She had been waiting for him the last several turns, goading him on. “I play — ” Seto hesitated. 

“ _ Yeah? _ What do you play?” 

“I play — ” Seto activated the card before announcing it. “Lady Luck…” 

She appeared in a pop of pink glitter, giggling — a curvaceous blond angel with two tiny wings, dressed in a toga. She hoisted her enormous die over her shoulder, winking at Jounouchi. 

He put his hand over his mouth. “You kept it.” 

“ _ Why wouldn’t I keep it? _ ” Seto moved his attention back to the field. “I bet the last four hundred of my life points, and whatever I roll will be the number I multiply them by.” 

“You want me to run out of cards, don’t you?” Jounouchi laughed. “You're going to need a pretty high number to survive my next attack.” 

“Roll the die!” 

Lady Luck cast the die and disappeared into a puff of smoke. It fell into the grass, stumbling, then stopped. Seto was holding his breath. 

He had rolled a one. 

“I end my turn.” 

“Kaiba — ”

“End it, Jounouchi.” 

“But — ”

“Do it. You’ve earned it.” 

Sighing, Jounouchi launched his final attack, a blast that washed Seto in blue light. His life points hit zero and his duel disk turned off, but where he expected the usual devastation, there was none. Just Jounouchi coming to squeeze him. 

***

Seto said he was going to go home when they made it to the front door. Jounouchi had gotten it back open, fluorescent kitchen light shining on him. He glanced at the bottles of tea, which by that point had made puddles. “Are you sure? Aren’t you hungry?” 

“I’m sure.” 

Jounouchi paused, intoxicating Seto with the full force of his rich brown eyes. “Look — I just got lucky. If you rolled a six, I totally would have run out of cards. You don’t have to leave — ”

“Don’t cheapen your victory by saying it was luck.” Seto put his hands in his pockets. “I just need to clear my head. I’m not angry.” 

“You promise?” 

He was beautiful, even backlit by the dingy kitchen light. 

“I promise.” 

“Okay, just — text me tomorrow, so I don’t worry.”

“You don’t need to worry — ”

“Promise you will.” 

Seto sighed. “I promise.”

Jounouchi hugged him goodbye and let him wander along the sidewalks and under the streetlights. Groups of teenagers passed by on their bicycles, laughing, as he waited for his car. 


	10. Chapter 10

The next morning Seto took himself to the swim club. He brought his bag, thrown together with his trunks, his goggles. He had forgotten his towel—something he realized only upon arriving. His bag’s weight felt too light as he walked through the front doors, colliding noncommittally with his hip. 

The worker at the desk was surprised to see him. She seemed on the verge of asking if they had made a mistake. _Did you mean for us to clear out the pool for you today, sir? If you had, we never received any message_ —but that look disappeared as soon as Seto surrendered his membership card, turquoise blue with a golden seal in the corner. She signed him in and handed him one of their plump white towels when he admitted to forgetting his own. 

The pool took on new life with other people inside it; the random splashes, the voices of a mother and child playing on the shallow end. Seto felt observed even though the people around him, also dressed in expensive European swimwear, never seemed to glance into his lane. No one noticed the fact that he was stopping so frequently after even one lap, or that his arms took the wrong angles and too short of strides, or that he sat leaning so long against the tiles, fixated by the handsome blue water. It was much warmer than he normally requested; more reminiscent of a vacation in Crete. He imagined hot white sands and crisp clear ocean, lingering. 

***

Upon arriving home, Seto collapsed onto his bed, face first into the comforter, still in his damp bathing suit. The window was open and shined its light onto his back. Another indulgence. At some point, he pulled up music on his phone. 

Seto chose opera and let it play—songs that sounded like love songs but actually detailed great suffering, or songs that were actually love songs but in vague terms. They described spring gardens in French, meeting along a secret path, the sky ordained by God. 

_Let me weep_

_And sigh for freedom._

Yet another curse. Gozaburo had stuffed languages into him like force-feeding a goose for _foie gras_ but never gave him the music. The tutors reduced the grammar to nuts and bolts, the mechanics, robotic and dead. Romance languages with no romance. Never any pleasure, so Seto was always a few degrees removed from ever truly understanding. 

His body sank further into the comforter. The day passed over him. He could feel the sun shifting angles across his back until it reached points he couldn’t pair with a time. His shoulder blade—was that noon or two? His neck—maybe three? 

The music transitioned too. At some point, his recommendations led him to a modern song that sampled a classical piece he didn’t recognize. Then, upon gaining that much ground, his phone indulged in every song he had never allowed it—trashy remixes, diabetic sugar pop, trap house, house trap, trap trap, house house, old broadway, modern broadway, early modern broadway, anime openings in dead languages from shows he would never admit to watching. 

When the sun had slid over his entire body and gathered into the corner, there was a knock at the door. 

“Hey, Seto—” Mokuba didn’t open it. “I haven’t seen you all day. Are you alright?” 

Finally, he stopped the music right before a bass drop. It was nearing five and his phone was almost dead, having flooded with notifications and a few texts. He coughed to jump start his voice. It sounded gravelly anyway. “I’m fine.” 

“Can I come in?” 

“Sure.” 

Mokuba opened the door, letting in the nascent sunset, and joined Seto on the bed. The mattress bounced with his weight on the corner. “So…” he started, “Did something happen last night at Jounouchi’s?” 

Finally, Seto turned over. The comforter was damp with the imprint of his swim trunks. “We had a duel. I lost.” 

“Oh—” Mokuba laid at the foot of the bed. They were facing each other. “I’m sorry. I know you’re probably upset, but you haven’t dueled in a while. I bet if you get into the habit of—”

“It’s not that.” 

The room was turning a warm shade of pink and Seto’s organs were boiling. He tried to put the right words in the right order and produced nothing. 

“Do you have a crush on Jounouchi?” Mokuba finally asked. 

Seto’s skin broke into goosebumps. 

“I’m kind of surprised you came back at all last night. I thought for sure that you two wanted some alone time. You didn’t…” Mokuba stopped. “You haven’t confessed yet, have you?” 

“No,” Seto rolled onto his back to take in the slow rotating blades of the ceiling fan and the sunset reaching across them. “I can’t believe I feel this way toward _Jounouchi_ of all people, but—” His lips suddenly became raw. He ached. “He’s so different now, and all of those things I thought were weaknesses…” 

“It’s awful, isn’t it?” 

Seto finally looked to Mokuba. “You don’t care that we’re both men?” 

“ _No way_. I mean, I can’t remember a time that you’ve ever shown an interest in women, so this isn’t particularly shocking. As long as he makes you happy.” Mokuba shifted, “You know, it seems like since Jounouchi has been coming around you’ve been smiling more. Your spirit doesn’t seem quite as heavy. Maybe he’s just what you needed.” 

Seto allowed enough time to say, _just what I needed_ , then answered, “I’m sure he doesn’t feel the same.” 

“ _Seto_ , haven’t you seen the way he looks at you?” 

Night had started to turn the room purple. There were dregs of red and peach left in the sky where the sunset had touched and later receded. 

Mokuba stood. “I know it hurts, but there’s only one way to resolve this. You have to tell him. Luckily for you, I don’t think Jounouchi would let it ruin your friendship. If he doesn’t feel the same, he would probably just be really flattered.” 

“Thank you, Mokuba.” 

“Of course,” He went to the door. “We have leftover rice in the fridge, so I was going to try my hand at some _omuraisu_. I could make a plate for you too, if you want.” 

“Please. I’m starving.” 

“Good. See you in the kitchen.” 

Mokuba left and Seto lingered. He needed more time to think before gathering the resolve to stand, knees popping, and turn on the light. He slipped on a bathrobe and entered the hallway, where the scent of eggs cooking coaxed him into the kitchen.


	11. Chapter 11

Seto stood outside that morning, the air cool enough to raise goosebumps across his skin. The sky was still purple, and it was that time of year when the cherry blossoms had finally opened and every tree on his property had ornamented themselves in lacy pink. Sometimes the wind would pick up and blow them across the garden. They resembled the seeds of a dandelion, escaping with little regard to gravity. They delicately littered the ground. 

Seto remained until he began to sweat beneath his pajamas. The sun was climbing, a reminder that it was time to deal with the rest of the day — to see Mokuba off, to address his neglected emails and Jounouchi’s text messages. 

Seto stood by the door as Mokuba put on his backpack. He had just started another semester and it had populated with new textbooks. They shuffled as he slid on his shoes and hugged Seto goodbye. “Do you think you’ll tell him today?” He asked, angling himself half out of the doorway. 

“I’m not patient enough to wait. I’ll probably call him at lunch. He’s usually free.” 

“Well, good luck. Let me know how it goes, okay?” 

“I will.” 

Mokuba left him with the door shutting. The mansion’s silence prickled Seto’s skin and he went upstairs to prepare for work. 

***

Jounouchi had sent a few messages the day before, checking on him.  _ How r u? _ or  _ Hey just seeing if your doing ok _ , and finally,  _ Hope your alright. Goodnight _ , including a sticker that said  _ Oyasumi _ with a sleeping rabbit draped over the hook of a crescent moon. 

Between phases of dressing, Seto compulsively checked his phone. He would brush his teeth, open a draft, comb his hair, try to answer:  _ I’m alright. Thanks for checking on me _ , button his shirt, discard that text, write another:  _ Can we talk today at noon _ , fasten his tie, erase that one too. 

It came to the point that if he didn’t leave that second, he would be late, but Seto remained on the chair in the front room, one sock bunched up around his left foot and the other inert against his thigh. 

He had attempted yet another draft when Jounouchi called. 

The sudden vibration of his phone nearly made him drop it. Seto hung up, returning to the open text message. He began typing.  _ I was just about to go to work. Can we talk _ — when his phone rang again. 

This time there was a knock. 

“Hello?” 

“Kaiba — ” Jounouchi’s voice was low through the receiver as he appeared within the door’s window as a cloudy bundle of shapes — blond hair, white T-shirt, hand in his pocket. 

Seto hung up, left his phone on the table. When he opened the door, Jounouchi was standing so close that he had to back up. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Without the filter of the cloudy glass, Seto could see that Jounouchi had taken some kind of beating, most likely at the hands of the outer wall. His shirt was scuffed and his arms covered in thin scratches ,  chewed up by the bricks when he lifted himself over. He was still breathing hard. 

“I came to ask you what your deal is. Are you seriously ignoring me over one stupid duel?” 

Seto looked down, catching his one naked foot. 

“I thought you would have answered me by now.  _ You promised _ .” Jounouchi crossed his arms. “ _ Are you giving up on me? _ I thought you wanted to change, and you were doing  _ so good. _ The Kaiba I knew wouldn’t quit so easily, so if you’re throwing me away— _ you better say it to my face. _ ” 

“I’m not — it’s been  _ one _ day.  _ Why would you draw that conclusion? _ ” 

“Because you always answer back! So if you’re leaving me on read then there’s gotta be something wrong.  _ So what is it? _ ”

That something wrong stuck to the inside of Seto’s throat. It was the first time in so long that Jounouchi’s eyes were glassy with anger and his mouth had clenched into a frown. Yet he was patient. He could hold that pose forever until Seto gave him something to punch him for. 

“ _ I didn’t answer because _ _ — _ ” Seto’s voice came out harder than intended. He felt like a child caught stealing. “I didn’t answer because…” 

Jounouchi was leaning forward. He held out his hand as if he would accept the answer in his palm;  _ just spit it out _ —the large blue marble Seto had taken. 

Seto made the mistake of making direct eye contact. The tips of his ears were burning pink and Jounouchi’s body relaxed as he seemed to realize. 

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” Seto admitted and turned as if to go back inside. Jounouchi was unintentionally modeling again — having gasped softly with his lips slightly agape. “I’m sure you don’t feel the same.” 

He took a step toward the mansion, but Jounouchi caught him by the wrist.

“What do you mean, _you’re sure I don’t feel the same?_ _Don’t you get it?_ I’ve been trying to kiss you since dinner, _since ramen_. I cleaned my apartment for you _and you didn’t think_ —” Jounouchi sighed, finally letting go. “You’re just so damn hard to read that I thought for sure you wouldn’t be into it. Like if I tried anything you’d never talk to me again.” 

“You’ve really been trying to kiss me since ramen?” 

“ _ Yes. _ ” 

Seto came to lean against the door frame. 

“You can’t — you can’t look at me like that.” He had to turn his face, sweeping his bangs back. “Look, I’m sorry I came here to potentially,  _ maybe _ , kick your ass but — next time, can you just tell me what you want? You know, keep me on the same page?” 

“I want to kiss you.” 

Jounouchi’s eyes widened. “ _ What? _ ” 

“You said to tell you what I want — ”

He stopped Seto there. Their lips met with the impact of a slap, hard enough that Seto could feel Jounouchi’s teeth behind them, then their softness, the salt from his sweat and the wax of his chapstick. 

“Seto — ” Jounouchi said, and they kissed again, more gently this time, in a way that permitted Jounouchi to hold onto Seto’s hips, or allowed Seto’s fingers to weave themselves into Jounouchi’s hair. 

Seto pulled Jounouchi into the house — one of them shut the door — and Jounouchi pushed Seto onto the couch, landing on top of him. They crushed each other, inflicting mutual bites upon top and bottom lips. Seto didn’t stop Jounouchi from yanking his tie or sucking his tongue. He only held him feverishly, as if intending to keep him forever, then released him to come up for air. 

Jounouchi held both sides of Seto’s face, sitting on top of him. He trailed his thumb along his cheek. 

Seto closed his eyes. “Say my name again.” 

Jounouchi smiled, kissed his forehead. “Seto , ” his left cheek, “Seto,” his right, “Seto,” his lips, “Seto,” his neck. He then lay back down, settling beneath Seto’s chin. “You’re insane,” he spoke to his collarbones, then turned his head to listen to Seto’s heart through his shirt. 

“ _ I’m _ insane?” Seto stroked through Jounouchi’s hair. He smelled of the outdoors, likely having walked from the station. “ _ You jumped over my wall.  _ You know you could have just called me.” Seto had found Jounouchi’s ear, trailing his fingers along its border. 

Jounouchi replied with a noncommittal sound and they settled into each other, like a house clicking into its plot. Seto breathed out as Jounouchi breathed in. 

“These things aren’t easy for me, but I’ll do my best.” 

Jounouchi shifted. He laid a kiss in between Seto’s collarbones, the divot where his neck began. “That’s all I’m asking for.” 

Seto texted Keiko, telling her to cancel his meetings; he wouldn’t be in. He and Jounouchi remained as the clouds passed lazily into the afternoon, complimenting each other.  _ You’re so handsome. I love your eyes. I’m crazy about you. I’ve been crazy about you.  _ And other things they never could have admitted before.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, this is it. The last chapter of the story, and I hope you enjoy it. I've had such a fun time the last eleven or so weeks posting chapters and seeing your reactions. This fic was already close to my heart, but y'all have made it even closer. Thank you so much for reading, and I would love to hear your final thoughts!

At some point, Seto had let Jounouchi go. He had to; they had only just admitted they liked each other. It wasn’t time to move in together, though the bed felt lonesome now that there were options. 

The next morning, Seto called Jounouchi without asking first. Such pleasant feelings were almost always harbingers of tragedy — like how they celebrated his father’s birthday right before they lost him. Life had left too many gifts not to fill him with dread, so Seto had to check. 

“Hey — ” Jounouchi sounded tired but happy anyway. “I was just thinking about you. How are you doing?” 

“I’m great,” Seto said, but took too long to say anything else. 

“Is everything okay? You’re not going to tell me you want to call this whole thing off, right?” 

“Absolutely not. But I do need to talk to you. About us.” 

“Shoot.” 

Seto leaned his head back on his pillow. He could hear Jounouchi fumbling around and imagined him rolling up his jeans to put on his socks, or maybe pulling on a T-shirt. “Before we get carried away, I wanted to let you know that if we’re together, the public is going to find out. I’ve never cared what they think, but — ” Seto sighed. “This could ruin your career — and that’s not to say that you need to worry about finances, but I know you’ve worked hard for this. If you need an out, this is it.” 

“Nah — ” Jounouchi didn’t hesitate. “There’s a ton of gay duelists and if my manager wants to have a problem with it, I’ll fire him.” More rustling, maybe the second sock. “No matter what, nothing and no one can stop me from winning tournaments, and who in their right mind would be embarrassed to date  _ you _ ? Like anyone is going to turn down the smartest, handsomest, best-at-cooking, most fashionable man in the world.  _ Come on _ .” 

Seto’s head spun deliciously. “You’re going to break your fans’ hearts.” He let the next word tumble out, “Katsuya.” 

“Eh, well. Yours is more important to me anyway.” It sounded like he had kissed his phone. “Any other concerns?” 

“Not at all.” 

“Good! I gotta run, but I’ll call you at lunch today, okay?” 

“Okay. Have a good day.” 

“Bye!” 

“Bye.” 

Jounouchi had hung up, probably stumbled into his  _ genkan _ , bouncing on one foot as he put on each shoe. Seto placed his phone over his heart, still warm. His alarm would ring soon, but he took comfort in every second he could steal. 

***

Months passed and Katsuya’s presence became evident within the Kaiba mansion. He had a bright red toothbrush to keep Seto’s company, and a pair of silk pajamas kept laundered and hung up in the closet. There was a third dueling jacket — a gift, real leather with shiny silver buttons, well out of Katsuya’s budget. 

He would come to their monthly game night with Tsukiko, Miyuki, and Toshiro. He made the living room even louder as he dramatically drew cards, slapping them onto the table, trying to get Seto to laugh and even succeeding sometimes. They too held hands secretly, sitting so close that Seto turned a little pink. 

They added a weekly curry night. Katsuya would help cut up the potatoes and carrots as Seto cooked the meat. Whenever he could, Katsuya snuck kisses onto Seto’s cheeks, or maybe his ear if he had missed, dropping the vegetables into the boiling water as an excuse to get close. “ _ Don’t kiss me in front of Mokuba _ ,” Seto said, but Katsuya did anyway. His lips would smack as he let go. Mokuba laughed, insisting he didn’t mind. 

Curry night often had Katsuya over late, so he would stay. Laying next to Seto in bed, he sighed as he sank into the mattress — a rich guy bed, he had called it, weightless and supportive. In the privacy of his room, Seto would push him into it, if he liked it so much, nibbling on his ears, returning the favor. “You can be as loud as you want — ” he spoke into Katsuya’s lips. “Mokuba’s room is all the way down the hall.” They would spend the night love-biting each other and wake up intertwined. 

Katsuya had once told Seto that he only opened up in absolute privacy, which he insisted was fine. “It’s just how you are,” he said, leading Seto to the bed, unknotting his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, “but I want to try something. Kind of like a game.” 

They sat close, naked, but chastely so. “If we were going to do  _ that _ , we would just do it,” he explained. “What I really want is to make your nightmares go away.”

Seto pulled away. 

“I hear you in your sleep sometimes,” Katsuya took him by the hands, brought him back. “Let’s just try this, okay?” 

He explained the rules, which were up to interpretation and could change as soon as they switched turns. “This doesn’t really sound like a game,” Seto said. “If it’s a game, how do you win?” and Katsuya kissed him, told him to shut up. He demonstrated how it worked, taking Seto’s hand and leading it to the back of his head, to the spot where his father broke the beer bottle. Beneath his hair, his skin was raised like the side of a coin. “You already know how I got this one, but I’ll tell you anyway,” and he did. “Then you have to kiss that area, or whatever. Just make me think of something else.” 

Seto brought Katsuya closer, and keeping his fingers on that spot, touched it with his lips. He kept them there a long time before letting go. 

“Alright,” they sat across from each other again. “What if I don’t want to talk about my scars?” 

“Then you can put my hand wherever you want, and I’ll kiss you anyway.” 

But Seto played along. He held onto Katsuya’s wrist and turned around to expose his back — smooth and even paler than the rest of him. It was untouched, save for the long scar running along his spine. You would have to be close up to see it, but as Seto brought Katsuya’s hand closer, he reached for it with his fingertips. 

“When my father caught me asleep at my desk and punished me with the switch.” 

Katsuya leaned forward, trailing kisses from the top of the scar, holding Seto by the hips. “You have the most gorgeous back I’ve ever seen.” He deviated to kiss around it — just one more aspect of Seto’s beauty. 

Seto placed his hands on top of Katsuya’s and sighed. 

“It’s nice, right?” He stopped kissing upon reaching the base of Seto’s neck, leaning against his shoulder. 

They continued, bringing each other’s hands to formerly cracked ribs, cuts from knife fights, skin once riddled with bruises.  _ They would always go for places no one would see. _ Then parts that hadn’t been hurt — Seto to Katsuya’s stomach, “It’s actually kind of cute,” and Katsuya to Seto’s collarbones, “These are perfect too.” During the last round, Seto wanted to choose where his hands would go and Katsuya let him, closing his eyes as Seto held his face. “Your eyelashes are so long — ” he kissed Katsuya’s right and left eyelids. “And your nose is so shapely.” He kissed the apex of it. Their lips were a breath apart. 

Katsuya didn’t ask to connect them, nor where to put his hands. Seto never bothered to mention that he didn’t suffer as many nightmares when Katsuya was there, nor that he wouldn’t mind playing his “game” again. 

***

Seto and Katsuya entered summer with endless photos of each other stored on their phones and little space between them. When Katsuya wasn’t at the mansion, Seto longed for him, left with an empty bed because Katsuya would either be home too late, or was out of town on a duel. He was at least cruel enough to bear his shape into the mattress, his scent ingrained into the sheets. Seto would sleep pointing toward Katsuya’s side of the bed, foot overlapping where his should have been. He even missed Katsuya’s toenails scratching him in the night.  _ What have you done to me?  _ He would text in the morning. Katsuya responded with smiley-faces, flowers. 

Seto sent him gifts. 

In raising Mokuba, Seto refused to spoil him. He wanted him to grow into a kind and well-adjusted young man, but Katsuya was already kind and well-adjusted, so Seto sent something almost every day. 

This included an orchard’s worth of flowers, shirts Katsuya would look handsome in, shoes, a custom top-of-the-line black and red duel disk, rare cologne in thin glass bottles, anything and everything he had ever mentioned liking. One day, upon signing for a new futon because he had made the mistake of mentioning that his was too firm, Katsuya called Seto. 

“Baby, you don’t have to keep doing this. There’s just no way I can keep up.” 

“I’m not asking you to.” 

“But I feel so — ” 

“Let me do this for you. Please.” 

Katsuya visited that night, filled the right side of Seto’s bed. With their foreheads pressed together, he told Seto about the upcoming Domino Fireworks show, held every third week of July. “Yugi and I go every year and we try to invite as many people as we can, so you should bring Mokuba, and he can ask his friends to come too. It’s nothing fancy, but I want you to be there.” 

Seto kissed him. “Will you wear a  _ yukata _ with me?” 

“ _ Matching outfits? _ What are we,  _ gay? _ ” He kissed back. “I’ll see if I have one. The last time I wore a  _ yukata _ was — ” 

“Do I have to spell it out?  _ I’ll buy you one. _ You can pick the color scheme, and I’ll match you as long as it’s not too hideous.” 

Katsuya huffed and pulled away, resting his hand on Seto’s jaw. “You don’t have to buy my love.” 

“ _ I’m not. _ ” 

“Then what is this?” 

It was dark, but Katsuya saw Seto’s eyes open. He struggled, exhaling and raising goosebumps along Katsuya’s arm. 

“Does it make you happy to see me wearing the clothes you give me?” 

“ _ Of course _ .” 

“And you’re doing this because you want to see me well cared for, and not because you’re afraid I’m going to leave?” 

Seto sighed, “ _ Yes _ .” 

“Okay,” Katsuya made his way back in. “Because I know we’ve both got some abandonment issues, but I don’t plan on leaving you. I’ll never up and disappear.” 

“I know you won’t.” Seto’s voice had slowed; he was going to sleep. 

“Good night, pretty rich boy.” 

“Good night, you adorable idiot.” 

*** 

Seto brought Katsuya to the same kimono shop he had taken Mokuba in January. They still displayed their  _ furisode _ ,  forever speaking a complex language of flowers—and their quieter mens’ kimono. Because it was summer, they had set out their  _ yukata _ , still wretchedly expensive, but less so. They were cotton, afterall — likely picked by hand from a field in the back of the store and wove at the loom, but cotton nonetheless. They too exploded with flowers and color as if trying to emulate a Van Gogh painting, liberated now that the canvas was no longer silk. 

Seto followed Katsuya into the changing room and dressed him himself, tying the  _ obi _ around his waist like the ribbon of a gift. “What do you think?” He would ask and Katsuya’s answer was, without much variation. “I don’t know. They’re all really nice.” Eventually, he decided on a red  _ yukata _ embellished in gold, and Seto blue and silver. 

The evening of the festival, Seto dressed Katsuya again, but even more meticulously. He made perfect angles, the crossing of the right side over the left like a ritual, making Katsuya hold it in place. The  _ obi _ — flashy yellow-gold—he wrapped around his hips. It divided him like an equator. 

“Thanks, Seto,” Katsuya said.

When they left, Seto, Katsuya, and Mokuba, all wearing _yukata_ , sat comfortably inside one of the larger vehicles. Mokuba had chosen purple. Tsukiko would be wearing the same color, he told them, producing the picture on his phone of her dressing room selfie, bright fuschia flowers in her hair. 

Upon arriving, Mokuba split off to find her, leaving Katsuya to guide Seto to the tarp. He linked their arms together, as if corresponding outfits couldn’t get any gayer, and navigated through the growing swarm of people also dressed in  _ yukata _ , also locking arms. 

“This doesn’t make you uncomfortable, does it?” 

“No,” Seto said. “I already told you I don’t care what anyone thinks.” 

Still, people were looking. 

The news leaked that they were dating. Some astute paparazzi member documented the lavish gifts arriving at Katsuya's apartment, or the snippet of a phone call he had in public where he had called someone “Baby,” or the picture of him sitting inside one of the cars clearly marked with the Kaiba Corp logo. Both had briefly discussed trying to hide their relationship, but decided they had nothing to be ashamed of. 

All of these images and audio clips, available across the four corners of the internet, produced rumors but left some plausible deniability.  _ Maybe they’re just friends _ , was written countless times in Katsuya’s fan forums. Others declared they were indeed boyfriends and theorized the dynamics of their relationship;  _ Kaiba is such a top _ , or  _ I bet Jounouchi loves to cuddle _ . (Both of which were true.) 

Katsuya put an end to the theorizing when leaving a cafe one morning. Phone camera in his face, the anonymous interviewer asked one question: “Jounouchi- _ san _ , are you dating Kaiba Seto?” 

Katsuya leaned forward, staring into the souls of every fangirl watching, and merely said, “Yup.” 

The internet exploded. They made the tabloids. People talked about them on TV. Some fans were heartbroken and the ones who weren’t produced more theories, more lewd artwork. Yet, a small subset of people insisted that Katsuya was joking.  _ Of course it would be fun to stir everyone up by saying that they’re dating, but that doesn’t necessarily mean _ — and wrote essays. 

There wouldn’t be any more deniability after that night. People recognized them. A few were even brave enough to approach, politely asking for pictures. Seto allowed it. Arm around Katsuya, he posed. In the lantern light from the food stands, they must have looked excellent, underscored in silver and gold. As they posed, Seto caught certain people glaring, so he held Katsuya tighter, instructing the amateur photographers to go ahead, take another. He angled his face in a way that communicated  _ Yes, I am infinitely more beautiful than all of you _ . His arm hugging Katsuya’s waist said,  _ He is too _ . 

Seto and Katsuya eventually wandered to the light blue tarp over their assigned patch of field, where Yugi, Honda, and Shizuka awaited them. They disconnected their hands and sat down amongst the greetings, the compulsive utterances of  _ hisashiburi _ as more people meandered by. They had come bearing snacks from the brightly lit stands leading to the field — _ karaage _ in bright white and orange cups soaked through with grease, or  _ yakisoba _ piled into flimsy plastic containers. Children walked by with shaved ice, whose syrup was fresh and damp like a wound. Several people checked the time, lighting their faces with their phones, hurrying to their spots. Eventually, Mokuba, Tsukiko, Miyuki, and Toshiro found them and occupied the tarp’s back row. There were yet more greetings. 

Katsuya squeezed Seto’s hand. “Thanks for coming.” 

Seto squeezed back. 

Finally, the announcer greeted the attendants. “Thank you for taking the time to come out this evening,” she said in a voice so rehearsed, it sounded like a recording. 

“You’re going to love this,” Katsuya said into Seto’s ear. 

“I know.” 

The announcer introduced the first sponsor and read their well wishes. Seto didn’t tell Katsuya that Kaiba Corporation had sponsored the finale, whose lights, they had promised, would fill the entire sky and shower over them, fizzling out only when they seemed dangerously close. 

The first few fireworks deployed with a quick, high-pitched sound — _ chuu _ ,  _ chuu, chuu _ . They exploded into koi fish, octopi, cat faces with their tongues poking out, stars, hearts. Katsuya stared in wonder. If Seto looked him in the eyes, he would find them sparkling too. 

Beneath a starburst reminiscent of a camera flash, Seto kissed Katsuya on the cheek. He responded by connecting their lips. 

Seto nearly thanked Katsuya for bringing him, nearly thanked him for everything, but wrapped an arm around him instead. If he had even thought it, Seto was sure, Katsuya must have already known.


End file.
